SIS 

TT<5(f 


Tubb 

for 


s. 


or  the  old.  f la^ 


PRICE  TWENTY-FIVE  CENTS 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


ARTHUR  LEWIS  TUBBS 


THE  PENN  PUBi 


!NG  COMPANY 


PHILADELPHIA 


Successful  Rural  Plays 

A Strong 'List  From  Which  to  Select  Your 
Next  Play 

FARM  FOLKS.  A Rural  Play  in  Four  Acts,  by  Arthur 
Lewis  Tubbs.  For  five  male  and  six  female  characters.  Time 
of  plajdng,  two  hours  and  a half.  One  simple  exterior,  two 
easy  interior  scenes.  Costumes,  modern.  Flora  Goodwin,  a 
farmer’s  daughter,  is  engaged  to  Philip  Burleigh,  a young  New 
Yorker.  Philip’s  mother  wants  him  to  mairy  a society  woman, 
and  by  falsehoods  makes  Flora  believe  Philip  does  not  love  her. 
Dave  Weston,  who  tvants  Flora  himself,  helps  the  deception  by 
intercepting  a letter  from  Philip  to  Flora.  She  agrees  to  mar^ 
Dave,  but  on  the  eve  of  their  marriage  Dave  confesses,  Philip 
learns  the  truth,  and  he  and  Flora  are  reunited.  It  is  a simple 
plot,  but  full  of  speeches  and  situations  that  sway  an  audience 
alternately  t®  tears  and  to  laughter.  Price,  25  cents. 

HOME  TIES.  A Rural  Play  in  Four  Acts,  by  Arthtw 
Lewis  Tubbs.  Characters,  four  male,  five  female.  Plays  two 
hours  and  a half.  Scene,  a simple  interior — same  for  all  four 
acts.  Costumes,  modern.  One  of  the  strongest  plays  Mr.  Tubbs 
has  written.  Martin  Winn’s  wife  left  him  w'hen  his  daughter 
Ruth  was  a baby.  Harold  Vincent,  the  nephew  and  adopted  son 
of  the  man  who  has  wronged  Martin,  makes  love  to  Ruth  Winn. 
She  is  also  loved  by  Len  Everett,  a prosperous  -young  farmer. 
When  Martin  discovers  who  Harold  is,  he  orders  him  to  leave 
Ruth.  Harold,  who  does  not  love  sincerely,  yields.  Ruth  dis- 
covers she  loves  Len,  but  thinks  she  has  lost  him  also.  Then 
he  comes  back,  and  Ruth  fmds  her  happiness.  Price  25  cents. 

THE  OLD  NEW  HAMPSHIRE  HOME.  A New 

England  Drama  in  Three  Acts,  by  Frank  Dumont.  For  seven 
males  and  four  females.  Time,  two  hours  and  a half.  Costumes, 
modern.  A play  with  a strong,  heart  interest  and  pathos,  yet  rich 
in  humor.  Easy  to  act  and  very  effective.  A rural  drama  of 
the  “Old  Homstead”  and  “Way  Dowm  East”  type.  Two  ex- 
terior scenes,  one  interior,  all  easy  to  set.  Full  of  strong  sit- 
uations and  delightfully  humorous  passages.  The  kind  of  a play 
everybody  understands  and  likes.  Price,  25  cents. 

THE  OLD  DAIRY  HOMESTEAD.  A Rural  Comedy 
in  Three  Acts,  by  Frank  Dumont.  For  five  males  and  four 
females.  Time,  two  hours.  Rural  costumes.  Scenes  rural  ex- 
terior and  interior.  An  adventurer  obtains  a large  sum  of  money 
from  a farm  house  through  the  intimidation  of  the  farmer’s 
niece,  whose  husband  he  'ulaims  to  be.  Her  escapes  from  the 
wiles  of  the  villain  and  his  female  accomplice  are  both  starting 
and  novel.  Price,  15  cents. 

A WHITE  MOUNTAIN  BOY.  A Strong  Melodrama  in 
Five  Acts,  by  Charles  Tow'NSEnd.  For  seven  males  and  four 
females,  and  three  supers.  Time,  two  hours  and  twenty  minutes. 
One  exterior,  three  interiors.  Costumes  easy.  The  hero,  a 
country  lad,  twice  saves  the  life  of  a banker’s  daughter,  which 
results  in  their  betrothal.  A scoundrelly  clerk  has  the  banker 
in  his  powder,  but  the  White  Mountain  boy  finds  a way  to  check- 
mate his  schemes,  saves  the  banker,  and  wins  the  girl.  Price 
IS  cents. 

THE  PENN  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA 


For  the  Old  Flag 

A Patriotic  Play  in  Thre&  Acts 


By 

ARTHUR  LEWIS  TUBBS 

Author  of  **Farm  Folks f **Home  Tiesf  ^*The  Village 
Lawyer  f **The  Finger  of  Scorn  f etc. 


PHILADELPHIA 

THE  PENN  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

1919 


Copyright  1918  by  The  Penn  Publishing  Company 


For  the  Old  Flag 


'5 


• o 


For  the  Old  Flag 


CAST  OF  CHARACTERS 

Philip  Randall  - - - - of  the  U.  S.  Army 

Tom  Randall  - - - - - -his  brother 

Rodney  Hunt from  New  York 

Hezekiah  Wilkins  - - - ‘an  ‘^Old  Vet'* 

Oliver  Moon  . . - . - a yotmg  patriot 

Lucy  Garrett tried  and  true 

Jessie  Randall  - - - sister  of  Philip  a7td  Tom 

Mrs.  Randall  -----  their  mother 
Sophia  Ash  . - . . ivho  is  mediu7}iistic** 

Ivy the  help" 

Time  of  Playing. — About  two  hours  and  a half. 

The  action  of  the  play  takes  place  in  a small  village  in 
New  York  State,  near  which  is  located  a United  States  Army 
training  camp.  The  first  act  occurs  on  an  afternoon  in 
August,  1917;  the  second  act,  about  the  same  time  the 
next  day,  and  the  third  act  in  the  evening,  the  following 
February. 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  PLAY 


Philip  Randall,  a United  States  soldier,  is  in  love  with 
Lucy  Garrett.  She  refuses  him,  her  love  and  faith 
having  been  pledged  to  his  brother,  Tom  Randall, 
who  is  in  prison,  accused  of  a theft  Lucy  believes 
he  did  not  commit.  Tom  returns,  and  confronts 
Philip.  “ You  took  that  money.”  Philip  begs 
mercy  for  the  sake  of  their  mother  and  “ for  the 
old  flag,”  and  Tom  agrees  to  keep  silent  for  a time. 
Philip  sails  for  France,  and  when  wounded  makes 
a confession  that  clears  his  brother’s  name.  Then 
Tom  in  turn,  with  Lucy’s  promise  to  wait  for  him, 
enlists  under  the  old  flag. 


NOTICE  TO  PROFESSIONALS 

This  play  is  published  for  the  free  use  of  strictly 
amateur  companies  only.  Professional  actors  or 
organizations  wishing  to  produce  it,  in  any  form 
or  under  any  title,  are  forbidden  to  do  so  without 
the  consent  of  the  author,  who  may  be  addressed 
in  care  of  the  publishers. 


COSTUMES  AND  CHARACTERISTICS 

Philip  Randall.  About  twenty-five  years  of  age.  A 
sturdy  young  country  fellow,  of  good  appearance, 
considerable  polish  and  attractive  manner.  He 
should  by  no  means  be  indicated  as  a coward,  but 
rather  as  one  “ not  wholly  convinced.”  A vein  of 
possible  villainy  should  be  hinted,  not  offensively 
depicted.  He  wears  the  khaki  uniform  of  a pri- 
vate in  the  U.  S.  Anny. 

4 


COSTUMES  AND  CHABACTEEISTICS 


Tom  Randall.  About  three  years  younger  than 
Philip.  Upon  his  first  appearance  he  is  pale, 
emaciated,  of  dejected  and  somewhat  desperate 
mien.  Cheap  suit,  considerably  the  worse  for 
wear.  Second  act,  same  suit,  but  much  more  tidy 
in  appearance,  also  improved  in  spirits  and  man- 
ner. Third  act,  well  dressed,  in  plain  dark  suit. 
He  has  fully  recovered  his  health  and  looks  robust 
and  athletic. 

Rodney  Hunt.  Young  “city  fellow”;  not  dudish, 
but  well  dressed  in  summer  flannel  or  outing  suit, 
with  straw  hat;  same  for  first  two  acts.  Third 
act,  uniform,  same  as  worn  by  Philip  in  first  act, 
with  heavy  overcoat,  etc. 

Hezekiah  Wilkins.  Little,  wizened  old  man,  about 
seventy.  Thin,  wrinkled  face,  with  sparse  gray 
hair  and  beard.  May  have  slight  limp.  First  act, 
baggy  old  trousers,  with  colored  shirt,  wide- 
brimmed  straw  hat,  etc.  Wears  G.  A.  R.  badge. 
Last  act,  neat  but  cheap  winter  suit ; overcoat,  cap, 
tippet,  etc.  Still  wears  badge. 

Oliver  Moon.  Boy  of  fifteen  or  sixteen.  Regular 
mischievous  “ Md,”  full  of  pranks.  First  act, 
short  trousers,  waist,  cap  or  straw  hat.  Last  act, 
heavier  suit. 

Lucy  Garrett.  Pretty,  winsome  girl  of  eighteen  or 
thereabouts,  of  cultured  manners.  First  act,  light, 
dainty  summer  costume,  with  hat.  Second  act, 
same  or  similar.  Third  act,  becoming  winter 
dress,  with  furs,  etc. 

Jessie  Randall.  About  same  age  as  Lucy.  Equally 
attractive,  though  not  so  richly  dressed.  First  act, 
neat  summer  dress,  with  hat.  Second  act,  similar 
attire.  Third  act,  neat  winter  dress. 

Mrs.  Randall.  Motherly  woman  of  about  fifty-five 
or  sixty;  white  hair;  very  gentle  and  loveable. 
First  act,  neat  dress,  with  bonnet  and  light  shawl 
or  wrap.  Second  act,  house  dress  of  calico  or 
some  such  material.  Third  act,  dark  house  dress. 

Sophia  Ash.  A quick,  “ fussy  ” and  self-important 
“ old  maid,”  distinctly  a comedy  part,  but  by  no 

5 


PROPERTI^:S 


means  a caricature.  She  is  about  forty-five  or 
fifty  years  old.  In  first  two  acts  she  is  attired  in 
somewhat  fancy  summer  dresses,  with  ribbons,  a 
gay  hat,  parasol,  fan,  etc.  Third  act,  equally 
“ dressy,”  but  appropriate  to  season,  with  shawl, 
etc. 

Ivy.  Typical  country  “help,”  fourteen  or  fifteen  years 
of  age.  First  two  acts,  short  dress,  with  large 
gingham  apron;  not  too  neat,  but  should  not  be 
noticeably  untidy.  Hair  combed  straight  back, 
with  braids,  or  hanging  in  ringlets.  Third  act, 
neater  attire,  with  ribbon  on  hair. 


PROPERTIES 

For  Mrs.  Randall:  Fan;  partly  knitted  sweater, 
needles,  wool,  etc. 

For  Ivy  : Pan  of  apples ; paring  knife ; glass  of  water ; 
several  cucumbers  or  substitutes ; tray  with  dishes, 
covered  with  napkin;  broom;  checker-board  and 
checkers. 

For  Lucy:  Knitting-bag  and  two  partly  knitted 
sweaters  (these  should  be  alike  except  that  one  is 
a little  more  advanced  than  the  other)  ; hand-bag. 

For  Jessie:  Partly  knitted  sock,  needles,  etc. 

For  Sophia:  Knitting  bag,  partly  knitted  sock, 
needles,  etc. ; newspaper  in  a wrapper. 

For  Oliver:  Basket  with  packages,  supposed  to  be 
groceries. 

For  Hezekiah  : Large  American  flag  on  a pole ; 
G.  A.  R.  badge. 

For  Rodney:  Letter  in  an  envelope,  addressed,  but 
not  stamped. 

Other  Properties:  A phonograph  to  be  heard  off 
stage,  with  military  march  record.  A cabinet 
organ,  to  be  heard  oft'  stage  playing  “ Keep  the 
Home  Fires  Burning,”  or  some  sympathetic  war 
music.  Later,  heard  playing  “ America.”  Salt,  to 
represent  snow. 


6 


SCENE  PLOT 


^XTER/O  R UFiOP 


Scene. — Sitting-room  of  the  Randall  home.  Door  in 
flat,  c.,  and  window  in  flat  l.  c.  (window  may  be 
omitted).  Back  drop  shows  village  scene,  fields, 
or  yard.  Doors  r.  and  l.  also.  Up  R.  small  table 
or  stand,  and  two  chairs  or  stools.  Down  R.,  two 
large  chairs.  Down  l.,  table  with  table  spread, 
papers,  books.  One  chair  r.  and  two  l.  of  table. 
Bookcase  or  some  other  article  of  furniture  up  L. 
Other  furnishings  to  make  a plain  but  comfort- 
able room. 


7 


For  the  Old  Flag 


ACT  I 

SCENE. — Sitting-room  of  the  Randall  homestead, 
plainly  but  neatly  furnished.  There  is  a door  up 
c.  in  flat  and  window  up  l.  in  flat,  also  doors  r. 
and  L. ; table,  with  spread,  papers,  a book  or  two, 
etc.,  L.  c. ; several  chairs.  It  is  an  afternoon  in 
August  and  the  window  and  door  up  c.  are  open, 
showing  yard,  the  fields  or  village  street  in  back- 
ground. At  rise,  a band  is  heard  off  r.,  playing  a 
military  march.  After  a pause,  during  which  the 
band  is  supposed  to  pass  in  the  distance,  the  music 
gradually  dying  away,  Oliver  Moon  enters,  march 
step,  door  c.  to  l.,  carrying  basket  containing  sev- 
eral packages;  down  c.,  just  as  Ivy  enters  r.  She 
carries  pan  containing  apples.  He  sets  down 
basket,  stands  at  attention  ” c.  Ivy  crosses  down 
L.,  turns  and  sees  Oliver. 

Ivy.  Oh!  that  you,  Oliver?  ’Bout  time  you  brung 
them  groceries. 

Oliver  {standing  erect,  arms  at  side;  salutes).  Here  I 

Ivy.  Oh,  come  on,  you  ain’t  no  soldier.  Can’t  fool  me. 

{Sits,  down  l.,  and  commences  to  pare  and  cut  up 
apples. ) 

Oliver  {assuming  natural  manner).  Oh,  that  you. 
Ivy? 

Ivy.  Who’s  it  look  like — Mis’  President  Wilson  ’r 
anybuddy  ? Brung  our  things,  did  y’  ? 

Oliver.  Yep.  Where’ll  I put  ’em? 

9 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Ivy.  Well,  mebbe  you’d  better  take  ’em  in  and  put  ’em 
on  the  pi-anner.  That’s  gen’ rally  where  we  keep 
our  groceries. 

Oliver.  Pi-anner?  You  ain’t  got  none. 

Ivy.  Well,  then  s’pose  you  go  ’n’  put  ’em  on  the 
kitchen  table.  I’d  take  ’em,  only  I got  t’  peel  these 
apples.  Phil’s  got  leave  ’n’  is  cornin’  home  t’ 
supper  ’n’  I got  t’  make  a lot  o’  apple  sauce. 

Oliver.  Give  me  a piece?  (Crosses  l.) 

Ivy.  How  c’n  I give  you  a piece  o’  apple  sauce,  you 
silly  ? ’Sides,  it  ain’t  made  yet. 

Oliver.  Aw,  I mean  a piece  o’  apple. 

(About  to  help  himself  from  pan.) 

Ivy.  Go  ’way;  th’  ain’t  none  t’  spare — ’cept  a little 
piece,  mebbe.  Here! 

(Hands  him  small  piece  of  apple.) 

Oliver.  Thanks.  Regular  Eve,  ain’t  y’  ? 

(Sits  near  her,  l.) 

Ivy.  Eve  who  ? 

Oliver.  ’N’  Adam.  Don’t  you  go  t’  Sunday-school? 

Ivy.  Oh,  ain’t  you  knowin’?  Sure  I do.  ’N’  you’d 
better  go  ’n’  put  them  groceries  in  the  kitchen  and 
get  back  t’  that  store,  ’r  Mr.  Bates’ll  give  you  more 
’n  ^apples. 

Oli\TlR.  Huh ! no  danger.  He  never  gives  a feller 
nothin’.  Y’  see  the  soldiers  ? 

Ivy.  No.  Heard  the  band,  but  Mis’  Randall  ’n’  Jessie 
wanted  t’  go  ’n’  see  ’em  ’cause  Phil  was  with  ’em, 
so  I had  t’  stay  home  and  watch  the  house.  She’s 
all  broke  up  over  his  ’nlistin’. 

(He  keeps  helping  himself  to  pieces  of  apple,  unnoticed 
by  her;  eats  them  almost  as  fast  as  she  pares 
them. ) 

Oliver.  I s’pose  she  is.  Jest  like  a mother.  But  it’s 
the  best  thing  ever  happened  t’  Phil  Randall. 
Mebbe  it’ll  make  a man  of  him. 


10 


FOB  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Ivy.  You  hadn't  better  let  her  hear  you  say  that. 
She  thinks  he’s  the  hull  thing,  almost,  ’n’  of  coupe 

he’s  all  she’s  got,  sense {Notices  him  eating 

apples,  jumps  up,  slapping  him.)  Here,  you! 
Ain’t  you  got  th’  cheek?  Well,  of  all  things,  if 
you  haven’t  et  all  I’ve  peeled ! 

Oliver.  The  woman  tempted  me  and  I did  eat 

Ivy.  Well,  I should  say  you  did ! Now  you  take  them 
things  in  the  kitchen,  ’n’  then  you  clear  out  o’  here. 
You’re  the  limit. 

Oliver  {going  r.,  with  basket).  Oh,  all  right!  Rut 
mebbe  you’ll  be  sorry  you  spoke  t’  me  like  that 
some  day — when  I’m  over  ’n  France,  ’n’  you  hear 
I’m  shot  ’r  somethin’. 

Ivy.  You  ! Huh,  I guess  they  ain’t  much  danger.  A 
pretty  soldier  you’d  make 

Oerter.  Who  wants  t’  be  a “pretty”  soldier?  But 
you  jest  bet  I’d  ’nlist  t’day  if  they’d  take  me. 
Ain’t  it  a shame  I ain’t  old  enough?  You  jest  bet 
I’d  ’nlist  if  I was. 

Ivy.  I guess  you  wouldn’t  be  s’  anxious  ’f  you  was. 
It’s  easy  enough  to  talk,  but  I guess  when  it  come 

to  the  pinch You  goin’  t’  take  them  things 

in  there? 

Oliver.  Sure — sure!  Y’  see.  Ivy  dear,  you’re  such 
a dingin’  little  vine,  I can’t  tear  m’self  away  from 

y’ — 

Ivy.  You  git  out 

{Runs  at  him,  giving  him  a cuff;  he  exits  R.,  with 
basket.  She  looks  at  pan,  disgusted;  goes  up, 
looks  off  door  c.  to  r.,  then,  carrying  pan,  comes 
down  R.,  as  she  sees  Mrs.  Randall  and  Jessie, 
who  enter  from  r.  They  wear  hats;  Mrs.  R.  has 
a plain  fan.  They  come  down  l.) 

Mrs.  Randall  {sitting  l.,  fanning  self).  I’m  so  tired. 
It’s  very  warm. 

Jessie  {by  her).  Yes,  Mother,  and  I’m  afraid  the 
walk  was  too  much  for  you.  Do  you  feel  faint  ? 

Mrs.  R.  Oh,  no;  just  a little  exhausted,  that’s  all 
I’ll  be  all  right  in  a minute. 

II 


FOB  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Ivy.  Shall  I get  you  a glass  o’  water,  Mis’  Randall? 

Mrs.  R.  Why,  yes.  Ivy,  if  you  will,  please. 

Ivy.  Yes,  ma’am.  Oliver  Moon’s  in  there.  He  jest 
brung  them  things  you  ordered  from  the  store 
b’fore  you  went  to  th’  p’rade.  They’re  the  slowest 
things  down  t’  that  store.  I’ll  bring  the  water. 

{Exit,  R.,  with  pmi.) 

Jessie.  It  was  very  hard,  wasn’t  it — seeing  Phil  in  his 
uniform  and  knowing  he  has  to  leave  us?  But  we 
must  be  brave,  you  know. 

Mrs.  R.  Yes,  dear,  of  course  we  must;  and  I mean  to 
be.  But  it  is  hard,  especially  when  I think  of — 
of 

(Covers  eyes  with  hand  or  fan,  weeping  gently.  Jessie 
puts  arm  about  her.) 

Jessie.  Don’t,  Mother,  please  don’t.  We  mustn’t 
think  about  him — about  that — you  know.  It 
doesn’t  do  any  good.  We  must  only  think  of  Phil, 
and  that  he  is  a soldier  now  and  is  going  to  be  a 
hero — and  fight  for  his  country — and — oh.  Mother, 
didn’t  he  look  fine  in  his  new  uniform?  I was  so 
proud  of  him.  Weren’t  you? 

Mrs.  R.  (recovering) . Yes,  yes,  of  course  I was. 
I’m  so  glad  he  has  leave  and  can  come  to  supper 
and  spend  a whole  day  with  us. 

(Enter  Ivy,  r.,  with  glass  of  water;  gives  it  to  Mrs.  R., 
who  drinks  nearly  all  of  it.  Oli\?er  enters  R.  and 
stands  r.  c.  with  empty  basket.) 

Ivy.  Feel  better  now.  Mis’  Randall? 

Mrs.  R.  Yes,  thank  you.  Ivy.  How  do  you  do, 
Oliver  ? 

Oliver.  How  d’  do,  Mis’  Randall  ? 

(He  and  Jessie  also  exchange  greetings.  Ivy  goes  out 
R.,  with  glass.) 

Jessie.  Wouldn’t  you  like  to  be  a soldier,  Oliver? 

13 


FOE  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Oliver.  You  jest  bet  I would,  Miss  Randall.  *T’s 
only  ’cause  I ain’t  old  enough ’t  I ain’t  one. 

Mrs.  R.  Some  would  be  glad  to  escape,  Oliver. 

Oliver.  Them  kind  ain’t  real  Americans.  They’re 
slackers.  I ain’t  built  that  way — no  more  ’n  your 
Phil  is.  Mis’  Randall.  I see  he’s  ’nlisted. 

Mrs.  R.  Yes.  We  have  just  been  to  see  him  in  his 
uniform,  for  the  first  time.  It  was  a very  fine 
parade.  Did  you  see  it? 

(Jessie  goes  up  to  door,  c.) 

Oliver.  No.  Couldn’t  git  away.  Well,  I must  be 
gilt’ll’  back,  ’r  old  Bates’ll  dock  my  week’s  wages. 

Jessie  {who  is  looking  off  to  r.).  Oh,  look!  Here 
comes  Mr.  Wilkins,  having  a parade  all  to  himself. 
(Waves  hand.)  Hello,  Mr.  Wilkins! 

(Oliver  goes  up,  looks  off;  Mrs.  R.  rises,  goes  up  C. 
part  way,  also  looks  off;  they  stand  aside,  as  Heze- 
KiAH  Wilkins  marches  in,  with  good-sized  Amer- 
ican flag.  Jessie  joins  him  on  one  side,  Oliver 
on  the  other;  they  march  about;  Ivy  looks  in  r., 
sees  them,  joins  them  and  they  parade  around,  all 
singing  or  whistling  ‘‘  The  Girl  I Left  Behind  Me.” 
Mrs.  R.  stands  up  l.,  watching  them,  smiling,  then 
applauding.  Philip  Randall  appears  in  door  c., 
in  uniform,  stands  and  watches  them,  at  first  %m- 
noticed.  They  finally  pause  and  he  claps  his 
hands. ) 

Philip.  Hurray!  Hurray!  Three  cheers  for  the 
U.  S.  A.! 

{They  all  turn  and  see  him.  He  comes  down  l.  Mrs. 
R.  comes  down  l.  to  him;  he  kisses  her,  then  kisses 
Jessie.  Oliver,  Hezekiah,  Ivy  at  r.) 

Mrs.  R.  Why,  Phil,  dear,  how  did  you  get  here  so 
soon  ? We  didn’t  expect  you  for  some  time  yet. 

Philip.  They  broke  ranks  soon  after  you  left,  and  I 
came  straight  here. 


*3 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Jessie.  My,  but  you  look  fine,  Phil!  Aren’t  you 
proud  ? 

Philip.  M’m — yes,  I suppose  I am.  It’s  all  very  fine, 
and  Pm  patriotic  and  all  that,  but — vrell,  somehow 
I don’t  feel  so  very  enthusiastic  just  yet.  I sup- 
pose I shall,  though,  in  time.  How  about  it,  Mr. 
Wilkins?  You  ought  to  know. 

PIezekiah.  Me  ? Guess  I do.  Be’n  through  th’  mill ! 
’Thusiasm?  ’M  full  of  it.  Gosh,  wish  I was  a 
young  ’un  agin,  y’  jest  bet  I’d  fall  in  line.  It’s  me 
f ’r  Old  Glory,  every  time ! 

(Waves  flag;  they  all  smile  and  applaud  lightly.) 

Jessie.  Good  for  you,  Mr.  Wilkins.  I guess  you 
know  what  war  is,  too  ? 

Hezekiah.  Guess  I do.  Fit  f’r  the  Union.  Was  at 
Antietam  ’n’  Bull  Run.  Makes  me  fire  up  all  over 
agin,  all  this  marchin’  ’n’  music,  ’n’  all.  I tell  y’ 
what,  young  man  (to  Philip),  you  ought  t’  be 
proud  t’  go  ’n’  fight  for  Uncle  Sam. 

Oliver.  Sure  he  ought  to.  Wish  I could  go. 

Philip.  I am.  But  there’s  another  side  to  it,  you 
know — going  away,  and  leaving  this  dear  little 
mother  and  sister,  and — they  have  no  one  else 

now,  and Oh,  but  we  mustn’t  think  of  these 

things,  I suppose.  By  the  way.  Mother,  I asked 
Rodney  Hunt  to  come  and  have  supper  with  us. 
I thought  you  wouldn’t  mind. 

Mrs.  R.  Why,  no,  of  course  not,  Phil,  if  you  want 
him.  But  we  are  not  very  stylish,  you  know,  and 
he — well,  being  from  the  city  and  living  at  the 
hotel  and  all 

Hezekiah.  He’s  that  city  dude  ’t  I’ve  seen  around 
with  you  s’  much,  ain’t  he? 

Philip.  I suppose  you  have  seen  him  with  me.  He 
has  been  my  friend  for  some  time,  and  he  lives 
in  New  York.  But  I don’t  know  as  I would  call 
him  a “ dude.”  Wearing  good  clothes  and  having 
an  education  and  polished  manners  doesn’t  nec- 
essarily mean  that  a man  is  what  vou  call  a 
“ dude,”  Hezekiah. 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


{He  goes  up  L.,  slightly  annoyed.  Mrs.  R.  is  dozvn  l.  ; 
Jessie  l.  c.  ; Hezekiah  up  r.  ; Oliver  and  Ivy  r.) 

Hezekiah.  Didn’t  mean  no  offense,  Phil,  m’  boy. 
But  I’ve  kind  o’  wondered  why  he  ain’t  wearin’  a 
uniform,  too.  Not  that  he’d  make  much  of  a 
soldier.  He’s  th’  kind  that  c’n  carry  a cane  ’r  a 
cigarette  better  ’n  a gun,  I take  it. 

Mrs.  R.  Well,  Phil,  if  your  friend  is  coming.  Ivy  and 
I will  go  and  see  about  getting  a little  something 
extra  for  supper.  I guess  there  is  time.  Come, 
Ivy. 

Ivy.  All  right.  Mis’  Randall. 

Philip.  Now,  Mother,  you  needn’t  go  and  fuss. 
Rodney  isn’t  so  particular,  and  he’ll  understand. 

Mrs.  R.  I know,  dear ; but  we  want  to  fix  up  a little, 
you  know.  I wouldn’t  want  you  to  be  ashamed 
of  us. 

{Exit  R.,  followed  by  Ivy.  Jessie  goes  to  r.) 

Jessie.  I’ll  go  and  see  if  there’s  anything  I can  do. 
Mother’s  all  upset,  I can  see  that.  I shouldn’t 
think  you  would  have  invited  Mr.  Hunt  here  to 
supper,  Phil,  without  telling  us  in  advance.  Pie’s 
used  to  style  and  all,  you  know  he  is. 

Philip  {going  to  her,  r.).  Pshaw!  It  won’t  hurt 
him,  if  he  is.  Besides,  things  are  plenty  good 
enough  here  for  him.  He  was  glad  enough  to 
accept,  and  you’re  glad  enough  to  have  him,  you 
know  you  are 

Jessie  {in  confusion).  Phil! 

Philip.  Now,  now,  little  sly  puss!  You  know  you 
think  he’s  the  grandest  thing  ever  was.  And  as 
for  him — well,  what  he  didn’t  say  nice  about 
you 

Jessie.  Phil! — be  still!  How  can  you?  They’ll 
hear 

{Glances  at  Hezekiah  and  Oliver,  who  are  up  c.,  in 
door,  talking  together,  apparently  not  noticing 
others,  who  are  up  r.) 

'5 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Philip.  That’s  all  right.  They  didn’t  notice.  What 
do  you  care  if  they  did?  {Turning  up  c.)  Going, 
Hezekiah  ? 

Hezekiah.  Wal,  I wa’n’t,  jest  yit.  {Comes  down  c.) 
Reckoned  I’d  run  in  ’n’  talk  soldier’n’  a few  min- 
utes, seein’  you’ve  got  y’r  uniform.  Thought 
mebbe  I c’d  give  y’  a little  advice.  Glad  t’. 

Philip.  That’s  very  kind,  Hezekiah,  but  I guess  I’ll 
get  all  the  advice  and  instructions  that  are  neces- 
sary, all  in  good  time.  What  do  you  think  about 
it,  Oliver  ? They  going  to  get  you  ? 

Oliver  {up  c).  Would,  if  I had  my  way.  Won’t 
take  me.  Ain’t  old  ’nough. 

Philip.  I guess  that  could  be  fixed.  They  might 
take  you,  one  way  or  another. 

Olr^r.  Oh!  think  they  would?  {About  to  go.) 
Well,  y’  see,  even  so,  I — I ain’t  sure  I could  go. 

Got  some  fambly  ties,  y’  know,  ’n’ Say,  it’s 

gitt’n’  late.  Guess  I’ll  have  t’  be  gitt’n’  back  t’ 
the  store,  ’r  Mr.  Bates’ll  give  it  t’  me.  Good-bye. 
See  y’  later. 

{Exit  Oliver  through  c.  door  to  l.  Jessie  goes  to 
door  c.  and  looks  after  him.  Philip  comes 
down  l.) 

Hezekiah.  Cold  feet.  Was  jes’  blowin’  about 
want’n’ t’  go. 

Philip  {leaning  on  table,  l.).  Well,  I tell  you,  it’s  no 
pleasant  thing  to  think  of,  after  all,  Mr.  Wilkins. 
I can’t  say  I’d  go,  if  I had  my  way.  I don’t  think 
I’m  a coward.  I want  to  be  patriotic  and  do  my 
duty,  and  I hope  I will  do  it  when  the  time  comes. 
But  a fellow  might  as  well  be  honest  with  himself 
and  own  up  that  he  doesn’t  hanker  after  war. 
It’s  a beastly  thing  to  think  of. 

Hezekiah.  You’re  right,  m’  boy,  it  is.  I was  there. 
It’s  a good  while  ago  now,  but  sometimes  it  seems 
like  it  was  yist’d’y.  I c’n  still  hear  the  cannons 
roarin’,  ’n’  see  the  boys  runnin’  int’  the  midst  of 
the  fight — ’n’  there  I be,  pitchin’  in,  day  after  day, 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


fightin’  — sometimes  fairly  dioppin’,  but  still 
keepin’  at  it — ’cause  y’  can’t  stop,  s’  long  ’s  y’r 
legs  ’ll  hold  y’  up  and  there’s  a breath  left  t’  fight 
with.  Then  one  day  I got  a shot — here,  in  this 
leg — the  bullet  went  in  there — right  here — and  I 
was  done  f’r.  {He  feels  of  right  knee.)  I’m  an 
old  Vet.  now,  and  hev  been  f’r  years  ’n’  years,  ’n’ 
I’ll  soon  lay  down  m’  arms  f’r  good.  But  I would 
like  t’  live  till  you  boys  come  marchin’  home  ’n’ 
y’  tell  us  you  licked  them  pesky  Huns.  That’d 
be  somethin’  t’  live  f’r — ’n’ t’  die  f’r,  if  needs  be, 
m’  boy — t’  die  f’r ! 

Philip  {going  and  clasping  his  hand).  Thanks,  Mr. 
Wilkins.  You  give  me  courage.  I’ll  try  to  be  as 
good  a soldier  as  you  were — as  you  are ! I never 
can  be — but  I’ll  try! 

Hezekiah  {patting  him  on  shoulder) . That’s  the  way 
t’  talk,  m’  boy — ’n’  I’ll  go  with  y’ — in  spirit — ’n’ 
keep  Old  Glory  wavin’  here  till  y’  come  marchin’ 
home. 

{They  are  down  l.  c.  ; Jessie  in  door  c.,  looking  off  to 
R.  Hezekiah  again  waves  flag, ) 

Philip.  Oh,  the  flag  will  come  flying  home  all  right, 
Hezekiah,  you  can  be  sure  of  that,  and  when  it 
does,  the  victory  it  has  won  will  be  worth  all  we 
have  done  to  win  it.  That’s  the  way  to  feel,  isn’t 
it? 

Hezekiah.  You  bet  it  is.  No  man  has  ever  died  in 
vain  if  he’s  give  his  life  f’r  Old  Glory. 

Jessie  {turning  to  them).  That’s  a fine  sentiment,  Mr. 
Wilkins.  It’s  easier  to  say  than  it  is  to  feel,  how- 
ever. 

Hezekiah.  Mebbe  ’tis;  mebbe  ’tis.  But  we  got  t’ 
feel  it  too,  you  know. 

Jessie  {coming  part  way  down  c.).  Oh,  yes,  I know, 
I know.  But  we’ve  got  to  learn, — to  learn  how  to 
smile  when  our  hearts  are  breaking,  and  cheer 
when,  if  we  did  what  we  feel  like  doing,  we  would 
just  sit  down  and  cry.  Oh,  I’m  not  complaining. 

17 


FOR  TEE  OLD  FLAG 


I love  my  country  and  I am  patriotic  and  I shall 
bear  up  and  act  like  a good  soldier’s  true  sister. 
But  you  needn’t  think  it  will  be  easy,  for  it’s  going 
to  be  hard — terribly,  terribly  hard! 

Philip  {going  io  her  and  putting  an  arm  about  her). 
Of  course  it  is,  little  sister.  That’s  why  you  will 
be  doing  something  for  your  country — as  much,  in 
staying  here  at  home,  you  and  Mother,  as  I am  in 
going.  Why,  it  will  be  the  mothers  and  sisters 
at  home,  loving  us  and  thinking  of  us,  that  will 
help  us,  more  than  anything  else,  to  win. 

Hezekiah.  My,  but  that  sounds  fine ! You’re  a 
reg’lar  orationer,  Phil.  But  y’  ought  t’  said 
“ sweethearts  ” too,  f’r  here  comes  yourn. 

(Jessie  wipes  her  eyes,  smiling  bravely.  Hezekiah 
has  gone  up  c. ; looks  off.) 

Philip.  Well,  of  course,  I meant  sweethearts,  too. 
But  as  for  mine — I guess  you’re  mistaken  there, 
Hezekiah.  I have  none. 

Hezekiah.  So?  Wal,  wal,  do  tell ! Thought  y’  had. 
’T  any  rate,  here  comes  Lucy  Garrett,  lookin’  like 
she  must  be  somebuddy’s  sweetheart.  Who’s  that 
with  her? 

Jessie  {looking  out  c.  to  r.).  Why,  it’s  Mr.  Hunt, 
Phil,  with — Lucy  Garrett. 

Philip.  Oh,  is  it? 

(Jessie  comes  down,  to  r.  c.  ; Hezekiah  up  l.  Philip 
goes  up,  meets  Rodney  Hunt  and  Lucy  Garrett, 
as  they  come  in  door  c.  to  r.) 

Rodney.  Good-afternoon,  Miss  Randall. 

{He  comes  dow^  r.  and  shakes  hands  with  Jessie,  who 
seems  a hit  embarrassed.  Jessie  welcomes  Lucy, 
zvho  has  spoken  to  Philip  cordially.) 

Lucy  {down  r.  c.).  I was  on  the  way  here,  Jessie,  to 
see  you,  when  Mr.  Hunt  overtook  me,  so  we  came 
along  together. 

iS 


FOE  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Rodney  {down  r.).  Yes.  I was  in  luck  for  once. 
Eh,  Phil? 

Philip  {up  c.)*  You  surely  were.  You  know  Mr. 
Wilkins,  Mr.  Hunt?  He’s  our  star  “ G.  A.  R.” 
A real  representative  of  the  U.  S.  A. 

Hezekiah  (l.).  Glad  t’ know  you,  Mr.  Hunt.  What 
y’  hunt’ll’  f’r— Huns? 

Rodney.  M’m — well,  not  exactly. 

(Philip  comes  down  c.  As  they  all  laugh,  he  seems 
somewhat  annoyed.  All  well  down  stage,  Lucv 
and  Jessie  r.  ; Rodney  c.  ; Philip  l.  c.  ; Hezekiah 

L.) 

Lucy.  Well,  I guess  he  wouldn’t  find  any  here,  if  he 
were.  It  was  a fine  parade,  Phil.  I felt  quite 
proud  of  you  as  you  went  marching  by 

Philip  {pleased).  Of  me,  Lucy? 

Lucy.  M’m — I meant  of  you  all — the  boys.  But,  of 
course,  you  too. 

Philip.  Oh ! 

Jessie.  Yes,  I thought  they  looked  splendid.  {Notic- 
ing bag  on  Lucy’s  arm.)  That  your  knitting, 
Lucy? 

Lucy  {holding  up  hag).  Yes.  Isn’t  it  a beauty?  I 
bought  it  in  New  York.  Oh,  you’ll  have  to  have 
one.  They’re  all  knitting.  It’s  quite  the  thing. 
They  knit  in  the  street  cars,  and  at  the  opera,  the 
theatres — everywhere. 

Hezekiah.  Anywheres  s’  long  ’s  it’s  in  public,  I 
s’pose.  Do  they  keep  it  up  t’  home,  when  they 
ain’t  nobuddy  lookin’  ? 

Rodney  {laughing).  Indeed,  no!  That  would  be 
quite  superfluous,  you  know. 

Hezekiah.  Oh,  would  it?  I thought  it  was  some- 
thin’ like  that. 

Jessie.  Come  on,  let’s  all  go  out  in  the  yard.  No 
use  staying  in  here.  I want  you  to  show  me  your 
bag,  Lucy,  and  what  you  are  knitting. 

Lucy.  All  right. 

{They  go  Jessie  first,  followed  by  Rodney,  to 

19 


FOE  THE  OLD  FLAG 


door  c.  They  go  off  to  R.  Hezekiah  m 'door  c., 
Lucy  up  r.  ; Philip  crosses  to  her. ) 

Hezekiah.  Be  out  here,  Phil.  Want  t’  see  y\  when 
you  git  a minute.  We’re  gitt’n’  up  a sort  o’  cele- 
bration ’n’  I thought  mebbe  you’d  help  it  along — 
you  ’ll’  some  of  the  boys.  Drill  ’r  somethin’. 
Think  you  could? 

Philip.  Oh,  I guess  so,  Hezekiah.  Talk  it  over, 
anyway. 

Hezekiah.  All  right.  I’ll  be  out  by  the  barn,  lookin’ 
at  the  pigs. 

{Exit  Hezekiah,  to  l.  Lucy  is  about  to  go  out,  Hut 
pauses  as  Philip  speaks.) 

Philip.  Lucy — wait ! 

Lucy.  What,  Phil, — what  is  it? 

Ppiilip.  I — I wanted  to  speak  to  you. 

Lucy.  But  not  now.  Jessie  is  waiting  for  me, 
and 

Philip  {up  c.).  No,  don’t  go,  Lucy.  Wait.  I may 
not  have  another  chance.  You  must  know  what 
I mean — how  I feel.  Oh,  Lucy,  I’ve  got  to  tell 
you,  now, — if  I don’t  it  may  be  too  late.  {She  is 
about  to  go;  he  stops  her.)  No,  you  must  listen. 
Lucy — I love  you — I’m  going  away.  I can’t  go 
without  telling  you — without  knowing  that  you  are 
waiting  for  me  here.  It’s  going  to  be  hard  to  go, 
but — but  if  I could  have  that  to  think  about — to 
know  that  you 

{She  comes  down  c. ; he  follows  her;  she  draws  away 
from  him,  as  he  tries  to  take  her  hand.) 

Lucy.  Phil — don’t.  You  mustn’t.  It  isn’t  right. 

Philip.  Why  isn’t  it  right?  Hasn’t  a man  a right 
to  tell  a girl  he  loves  her — that  she  is  the  only  one 
in  the  world  for  him,  and  that  he  has  nothing  to 
live  for  if  she  doesn’t  tell  him  she  loves  him? 

Lucy.  Stop,  Phil.  You  know  you  shouldn’t  say  such 

20 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


things  to  me,  and  that  I shouldn’t  listen  to  them. 
It  isn’t  fair  to — to  him. 

(Lays  knitting  hag  on  table.) 

Philip.  But  why  should  we  think  of  him? 

Lucy.  You  ask  me  that — you  ? — and  he  your  brother  ? 
Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  could  respect  me  if 
I should  turn  to  you  now,  while  he  is  shut  up  over 
there?  Don’t  you  know  I promised  him  I would 
wait  for  him?  Oh,  you  know  I did — you  know 
I did! 

Philip.  But  you  can’t,  Lucy.  You  don’t  love  him 
now.  How  can  you  ? He  is  a convict,  a 

Lucy.  Don’t  say  it,  Phil.  He  may  be  a convict,  but 
that  isn’t  saying  he  is  guilty  of  the  crime  of  which 
he  was  accused.  There’s  many  an  innocent  man 
behind  prison  walls,  and  many  a guilty  one  outside 
of  them.  You  ought  to  know  that. 

Philip.  I ? Why,  Lucy,  what  do  you  mean 

Lucy.  Oh,  perhaps  I don’t  mean  anything,  except 
that  I never  believed  Tom  Randall  took  that 
money. 

Philip.  We  needn’t  discuss  that.  It  was  proved 
against  him. 

Lucy.  Yes,  and  it  was  your  testimony  that  did  it. 
Yours — his  brother’s.  Oh,  I know  you  pretended 
you  were  reluctant  to  tell  what  you  did — that  you 
saw  him  coming  out  of  the  bank  that  night,  an 
hour  after  it  was  closed,  proving  that  he  had  gone 
back.  And  when  the  money  was  missing,  and 
those  bills  were  found  on  him,  you  “ let  slip  ” 
something  that  made  them  ask  what  you  knew 
about  it,  and  you  had  to  tell.  I know  all  that,  but 
I know,  too,  that,  in  spite  of  it  all,  I never  believed 
Tom  guilty,  never  did  and  never  shall. 

Philip.  Well,  you  have  a right  to  feel  that  way,  and 
of  course  I hope  you  are  right.  I should  like  to 
see  Tom  vindicated,  and  I would  do  all  I could  to 
bring  it  about 

Lucy  (close  to  him,  looking  straight  into  his  eyes). 
Do  you  mean  that,  Philip  Randall  ? 


21 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Philip  {trying  not  to  flinch,  but  unable  to  meet  her 
gaze).  Why,  yes,  of  course  I do. 

Lucy.  Then  why  don't  you  tell  ? 

Philip.  Tell?  Tell  what 

Lucy.  What  you  know.  What  you  ought  to  tell — 
the  truth ! 

Philip.  I — I don't  know  what  you  mean.  I can’t 
imagine  what  you  have  got  into  your  head. 

Lucy.  Well,  it's  something  you  can’t  get  out  of  it. 
It's  something  that  makes  that  uniform  you  have 
on  mean  nothing  to  me,  so  long  as  I think  what 
I do. 

Philip.  Lucy ! 

Lucy.  Oh,  you  needn't  be  afraid.  I have  never  said 
this  to  anybody  else,  and  I'm  not  going  to  do  so. 
It’s  only  my  opinion,  and  it  wouldn’t  do  any  good 
to  express  it.  I may  think  things,  but  I can  prove 
nothing,  unless  it  is  my  faith  in  Tom  Randall  and 
my  determination  to  stick  to  him  and  wait  for  him. 

Philip.  What ! Do  you  mean  to  say  you  would 
marry  him — marry  him,  after  he  comes  out  of 
prison,  and  face  it  out  with  him?  I guess  you 
don’t  realize  what  that  would  mean. 

Lucy.  It  would  mean  I believe  him  innocent,  no  mat- 
ter what  all  the  rest  of  the  world  believe,  and  that 
there  was  one  woman  who  didn’t  go  back  on  a 
man  just  because  things  were  against  him. 

Philip.  Yes,  but 

{He  walks  up  c.,  as  Mrs.  R.  enters  r.) 

Mrs.  R.  How  do  you  do,  Lucy?  Why,  Lucy — Phil — 
what  is  the  matter  ? 

Philip.  Nothing,  Mother,  Lucy  and  I were  just 
discussing  something,  and  we — we  couldn’t  quite 
agree,  that’s  all.  I’ll  be  out  here  with  Jessie  and 
Rodney.  Will  you  come,  Lucy? 

Lucy.  Pretty  soon.  You  needn't  wait. 

{Exit  Philip  through  door  at  c.  and  off  l.  Lucy  is  c. 

Mrs.  R.  goes  to^  her.) 

22 


FOB  TUE  OLD  FLAG 


Mrs.  R.  Why,  Lucy,  what  is  it  ? I am  sure  you  and 
Philip  have  been  having  some  words.  I can’t 
imagine — I thought  you  were  such  good  friends. 

Lucy.  Why,  we  are,  Mrs.  Randall.  We  weren’t 
quarreling.  I don’t  want  to  tell  you  what  it  was 
about,  because — well,  I know  it  is  a subject  that 
it  hurts  you  to  discuss. 

Mrs.  R.  Lucy,  do  you  mean — Tom?  Was  it  Tom 
you  were  talking  about? 

Lucy.  Yes,  Mrs.  Randall.  Oh,  you  know  how  I feel ! 
You  know  I never  believed  him  guilty,  even  when 
everything  was  against  him.  I couldn’t  believe 
Tom  a — a thief. 

Mrs.  R.  I know,  dear.  That  was  because  you  loved 
him,  and  your  heart,  like  mine,  told  you  that  it 
could  not  be  so. 

Lucy.  And  it  still  tells  me  so.  I still  believe  in  him, 
I still  love  him,  Mrs.  Randall,  and  I’ll  wait  for 
him.  And  when  he  comes  out  you  and  I will 
stick  by  him  and  comfort  him — even  if  all  the 
rest  of  the  world  turns  against  him. 

Mrs.  R.  You  are  a noble,  true  girl,  Lucy,  and  Tom  is 
blessed  indeed  in  having  such  a heart  as  yours  to 
beat  for  him.  But,  my  dear,  you  forget — it  can’t 
be — there’s  your  father 

Lucy.  Oh,  I know.  Sometimes  I almost  wish  he 
were  not  my  father,  he  seems  so  hard,  so  cruel. 
He  has  forbidden  me  even  to  mention  Tom’s  name. 
He  calls  him — those  awful  words  that  Mr.  Stone, 
the  District  Attorney,  spoke  of  him — oh,  I shall 
never  forget — and  he,  my  own  father,  says  he  will 
have  no  more  to  do  with  me,  that  I shall  no  longer 
be  his  daughter,  if  I even  speak  to  Tom  again 
when  he  comes  out.  But  do  you  think  that  will 
make  any  difference?  Do  you  think  even  he  can 
turn  me  against  Tom? 

Mrs.  R.  No,  no,  my  dear,  of  course  not.  But  we 
must  face  the  truth.  Tom  is  my  boy  and,  no 
matter  what  others  think,  I believe  him  innocent — 
I know  he  is.  And  it’s  oh,  such  a comfort  to  me 
to  feel  that  you  think  so  too.  But  we  must  face 

23 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


the  truth,  dear.  Your  father  is  a rich"  man,  he 
has  power  and  influence,  and  it  was  in  his  bank 
that — that  that  theft  took  place,  and  he  believes 
Tom  is  the  one  that  did  it.  Everything  was  against 
him,  you  know,  and  your  father  had  reason  to 
believe  him  guilty. 

Lucy.  Oh,  I know  he  had  reasons.  He  was  anxious 
to  find  them,  it  seemed  to  me,  and  so  was  that 
terrible,  hard-hearted  District  Attorney  Stone, 
whose  name  just  suits  him.  Why,  they  wouldn’t 
even  give  Tom  the  benefit  of  the  doubt. 

Mrs.  R.  I’m  afraid,  Lucy  dear,  that  they  thought 
there  wasn’t  any  doubt.  Poor  Tom  had  to  admit 
that  he  went  back  to  the  bank  that  night,  and  it 
was  Phil,  you  know,  who  saw  him  coming  out. 
Then  all  that  money  was  found  in  Tom’s  room, 
more  than  he  could  ever  have  had  of  his  own, 

and Oh,  Lucy,  everything  was  against  him. 

Everything ! 

Lucy.  Yes — even  his  own  brother.  His  own  flesh 
and  blood  convicted  him. 

Mrs.  R.  Lucy!  You  mustn’t  blame  Philip.  You 
mustn’t  do  that.  That  would  be  unjust.  He  had 
to  tell.  He  tried  not  to,  you  know,  but  they  ques- 
tioned him,  and  got  it  out  of  him.  Oh,  I wouldn’t 
want  you  to  feel  that  w^ay,  Lucy.  It  would  be 
terrible,  now  that  Phil  is  a soldier,  to  have  him 
go  away  with  any  such  a feeling  as  that  on  your 
part.  Is — is  that  what  you  and  he  were  talking 
about?  (Lucy  is  silent;  turns  away.)  Lucy, 
was  it  ? Did  you  make  Philip  feel  that  you  blame 
him? 

Lucy  {facing  her,  sadly).  I’m  sorry,  Mrs.  Randall. 
I was  excited,  thinking  of  Tom.  It  hurts  me  so, 
— and  I said  more  than  I should.  I am  sorry. 

Mrs.  R.  Well,  it  was  because  you  feel  so  about  Tom, 
dear,  and  Philip  will  understand.  He  won’t  lay 
it  up  against  you.  There,  there,  we  won’t  think 
any  more  about  it.  I want  you  to  stay  and  have 
supper  with  us,  Luc\u  Mr.  Hunt  is  here,  you 
know,  and  it  will  be  quite  a little  party. 

24 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Lucy.  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Randall,  but  I don’t  believe 
I can 

Mrs.  R.  Oh,  but  I won’t  take  “ no  ” for  an  answer. 
We  don’t  know  how  soon  Philip  may  have  to  go 
away,  you  know,  and  we  may  not  all  be  here  to- 
gether again. 

Lucy.  But  if  Mr.  Hunt  is  here,  I — really,  I don’t 
think  I can  stay. 

Mrs.  R.  You  don’t  like  him,  I know.  But  never 
mind.  Stay  for  my  sake,  and  Phil’s. 

Lucy.  Oh,  it  isn’t  so  much  that  I don’t  like  Mr.  Hunt. 
I distrust  him.  I can’t  understand  what  Phil  sees 
in  him  to  make  such  a friend  of. 

Mrs.  R.  Why,  they  were  chums  when  Philip  was 
away  at  school,  you  know,  and  Philip  visited  him 
in  New  York  for  several  weeks,  a few  years  ago, 
and 

Lucy.  Yes.  Just  before  Tom’s  trouble,  Avasn’t  it? 
Phil  had  just  come  back  from  New  York,  and 
Mr.  Plunt  had  been  here,  and — I remember. 

Mrs.  R.  Why,  Lucy,  what  do  you  mean?  You 
mustn’t  keep  dwelling  on  that.  It  doesn’t  do  any 
good  now,  and  we  agreed  not  to  talk  about  it  any 
more,  you  know.  We  must  think  of  other  things — 
of  the  soldiers — of  our  country 

Lucy  {trying  to  smile).  Yes,  I know.  And  I must 
knit.  Goodness,  think  of  all  the  time  I’ve  wasted. 
I might  have  done  a dozen  rows  or  more.  {Gets 
hag  from  table,  opens  it,  takes  out  knitting.)  I 
promised  to  show  it  to  Jessie.  I think  I’ll  go  out. 
She’s  waiting  for  me. 

Mrs.  R.  {looking  at  knitting).  Oh,  you’re  getting 
along  nicely,  aren’t  you  ? What  is  it  ? 

Lucy.  M’m — well,  it  isn’t  anything  yet. 

Mrs.  R.  I see.  Of  course,  I meant  going  to  be. 

Lucy.  I hope  it  is  going  to  be  a sweater.  That’s  what 
I want  it  to  be.  But  seeing  it’s  my  first,  and  I’m 
just  sort  of  feeling  my  way,  it  may  turn  out  to  be 
a tippet,  or  maybe  only  a pair  of  wristlets. 

Mrs.  R.  Lucy!  I’m  sure  it  will  be  a beautiful 
sweater^ 


25 


FOR  TEE  OLD  FLAG 


Lucy.  Thanks  for  those  kind  words.  May  your 
faith  be  fully  rewarded — and  my  good  intentions. 

{They  are  up  to  door  c.,  about  to  go  out,  hut  draw  hack 
as  Jessie  runs  in  from  r.) 

Jessie.  Well,  I must  say  it  takes  you  long  enough. 
I thought  you  were  coming  out  wuth  us. 

Lucy.  So  I am.  I was  just  showing  your  mother  my 
knitting. 

Mrs.  R.  Yes,  dear;  she  says  she  is  knitting  a 
sweater — for  some  soldier,  I suppose.  Maybe 
it  is  for  Phil. 

Jessie.  Oh!  is  it,  Lucy? 

Lucy.  Mercy  me,  I don’t  even  know  it’s  going  to  be 
that.  If  it’s  only  wristlets,  he  might  not  want 
them.  {She  has  gone  up  to  c. ; looks  off  to  l.) 
Here  comes  Sophia  Ash. 

Jessie.  Is  it?  Oh,  dear!  I wonder  if  we’ve  got  to 
have  her  wished  on  to  us. 

Mrs.  R.  Jessie,  I am  surprised. 

Jessie.  Well,  you  needn’t  be.  You  don’t  want  to  see 
her  yourself.  You  dread  her  coming  here,  you 
know  you  do. 

Mrs.  R.  What  I dread  is  having  her  go  into  one  of 
those  spells — “ trance,”  she  calls  it.  She  just 
makes  me  creep  when  she  goes  into  one  of  them, 
and  it  seems  to  me  she  is  always  and  forever  get- 
ting under  the  influence  of  her  “ control,”  as  she 
calls  it.  It’s  an  Indian  girl,  her  “ control  ” is, 
named — what  is  her  name,  Jessie? 

Jessie.  “ Prairie  Flower.”  Some  flower,  I call  her, 
if  she  can  “ control  ” Sophia  Ash,  especially  her 
tongue.  Did  you  ever  see  her  when  she  was  in 
one,  Lucy? 

Lucy.  No,  but  I should  love  to.  Do  you  think  she 
could  go  into  one  this  afternoon? 

Jessie.  Could  she?  Just  you  wait.  That’s  what 
she’s  coming  here  for. 

Lucy.  I have  heard  about  her  and  her  trances,  but 
never  happened  to  see  her  when  she  was  in  one. 
What  does  she  do? 


26 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Jessie.  Acts  like  she  had  a fit,  and  tells  you  a lot  of 
things  you  know  already.  But  here  she  is.  Now 
for  it. 

{Enter  Sophia  Ash,  through  door  c,  from  l.,  clasping 
her  hands,  rolling  her  eyes,  with  a far-away  ” 
expression  and  distracted  manner.  She  does  not 
notice  the  others,  as  she  conies  down  c.  Mrs.  R. 
places  chair  r.  c.  and  Sophia  sinks  into  it,  moan- 
ing, with  clasped  hands,  and  swaying  gently  from 
side  to  side. ) 

Mrs.  R.  Oh,  dear,  she’s  in  one  of  ’em. 

Jessie.  I should  say  she  is.  I guess  we’re  in  for  it, 
this  time. 

Mrs.  R.  Jessie,  dear,  don’t  make  fun  of  her. 

Jessie.  Oh,  I can’t  help  it. 

{Enter  Hezekiah  through  door  c.  from  L.  Sophia 
seated  c. ; Mrs.  R.  is  r.  c.  ; Jessie  and  Lucy  l.  c.  ; 
Hezekiah  comes  down  l.) 

Hezekiapi.  Oh,  here’s  the  mee-jum,  is  she?  Thought 
I seen  her  cornin’  in.  Phew  ! she’s  havin’  ’em. 

{Enter  Philip  and  Rodney  through  door  c.,  from  L. ; 
they  stand  hack,  looking  on,  amusedly.  ) 

Lucy.  S-sh  ! She  is  going  to  speak. 

Jessie.  H’m!  that’s  nothing  strange.  Easiest  thing 
she  does. 

Mrs.  R.  Jessie ! 

(Sophia  sways  back  and  forth,  moaning,  then  slops, 
with  closed  eyes.  The  others  all  keep  very  still. 
Sophia  mumbles  indistinctly  for  a moment,  then 
begins  speaking,  mysteriously.) 

Sophia.  Prairie  Flower  say — Prairie  Flower  see — 

{stretching  out  arm,  points)  she  see Oh,  it 

is  terrible — terrible She  say — she  see — she 

see  troops,  marching  men,  cannons,  swords — hark ! 
it’s  the  guns,  booming,  booming ! It’s  men — fight- 
ing— war,  war— war! 

27 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


{Moans  again,  rocking  hack  and  forth,  wailing.) 

Hezekiaii.  What  d' y’ think  o’ that  ? Prairie  Flower, 
she  see  war.  Kind  o’  b’hind  the  times,  ain’t  she? 

Sophia.  I see  beyond — there — far  off — in  the  dis- 
tance — 

Hezekiah.  ’S  fur’s  the  middle  o’  next  week,  I reckon. 

{She  waves  her  hands  about.) 

Philip  {looking  on  from  hack).  She  seems  to  be 
groping  for  something 

Rodney.  Visions,  maybe. 

Hezekiah.  Acts  more  like  she  gropin’  f’r  flies  ’r 
m’skeeters. 

Ppiilip.  Or  a husband.  You’d  better  look  out, 
Hezekiah. 

Hezekiah.  Gosh ! Guess  I had. 

Lucy.  I think  it’s  perfectly  ridiculous. 

{She  goes  up,  joining  Philip  and  Rodney.  They  are 
hy  door  c.,  paying  little  attention  to  the  others, 
talking,  though  occasionally  glancing  at  Sophia, 
smiling. ) 

SoppiiA.  All  is  dark  again.  Now  I see — yes,  there  is 
a gleam  of  light.  Hark ! I hear  Prairie  Flower’s 
voice  again.  She  is  calling  to  me.  She  has  a 
message  for  some  one.  Who?  Who  is  it  you 
want,  Prairie  Flower?  I am  listening.  Yes,  I 
hear  you.  But  it  is  so  faint.  Speak  louder. 
Prairie  Flower. 

Hezekiah.  Guess  y’  got  a poor  c’nection.  Better  call 
up  central 

{Those  at  hack  laugh.  Sophia  straightens  up,  begins 
to  come  out  of  trance,”  shuddering,  moaning, 
etc.) 

Mrs.  R.  There,  she’s  coming  to. 

Hezekiah.  Two  ’r  three,  looks  like. 

Jessie  {shaking  Sophia  gently).  Miss  Ash!  Miss 
Ash  I 


28 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Hezektah.  Makes  me  tired,  all  that  pretend’n*  'n' 
puttV  on.  War?  Coin’  f have  war?  Guess 
I'd  better  go  V send  word  t'  th'  President.  Mebbe 
he’d  like  t’  know  th’  news. 

Sophia  {looking  about,  in  a dazed  manner).  Where — 
where  am  I?  Oh,  it’s — why,  it’s  you,  Mis’  Ran- 
dall ! And  Jessie. 

Mrs.  R.  Yes,  Sophia,  you’re  here  with  us.  Do  you 
feel  better  now  ? 

Sophia.  Yes,  I am  all  right  now.  But  I have  been 
far  away — far  away 

Hezekiah.  Can  y’  tell  us  when  th’  Kaiser’s  goin’  t’ 
git  it  in  the  neck.  Miss  Ash  ? 

Sophia.  Oh,  you  can  make  fun  of  me  all  you  want 
to,  Hezekiah  Wilkins.  But  I guess  if  you  had  my 
powers,  you’d  have  more  respect  for  the  mystic 
world.  Sometimes  I think  it’s  almost  an  affliction 
to  be  so  mediumistic,  one  gets  so  misunderstood 
and  made  fun  of.  But  it’s  a gift — it  comes  with- 
out seekin’. 

Hezekiah.  Like  the  mumps  ’r  the  lumbago. 

(Lucy,  Philip  and  Rodney  laugh,  about  to  go  out.) 

Lucy.  Come  on,  Jessie;  we’re  going  to  take  a little 
walk.  Will  you  go? 

Jessie.  Thanks,  but  I can’t.  I have  to  see  about 
supper.  Don’t  be  long.  It  is  nearly  ready. 

Mrs.  R.  Yes,  and  you  stay,  Lucy. 

Jessie.  Why,  certainly  she  will.  I’ll  put  a plate  on 
for  her. 

Lucy.  All  right,  then.  Thank  you,  I will.  (Philip 
and  Rodney  go  off  through  c.  door  and  to  l.,  call- 
ing her.  As  she  follows  them.)  Sorry  you  can’t 
come,  Jessie.  But  we  won’t  be  long. 

{Exeunt  Philip,  Rodney  and  Lucy  through  door  c. 
to  L.  Jessie  goes  r.) 

Jessie.  I’ll  go  and  help  Ivy,  Mother. 

Mrs.  R.  Yes,  dear,  do.  And  have  her  call  us  as  soon 
as  it  is  ready. 


29 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Jessii:.  All  right.  It  will  be  only  a few  minutes. 

{Exit,  R.) 

1\Irs.  R.  I hope  you  are  all  right  now,  Sophia. 

Sophia  {siUl  seated,  Mrs.  R.  ai  lie?'  l.).  Yes,  I’m  all 
right.  It  does  kind  o’  take  my  strength,  though, 
when  I have  to  go.  Oh,  i\Iis’  Randall,  it’s  terrible 
to  be  so  misunderstood  and  made  fun  of.  But  I 
suppose  it’s  my  mission  in  life  and  I must  accept 
it.  ]\Iy  strange  powers  come  to  me  and  I must 
lake  v.'hat  they  bring.  I try  to  use  ’em  for  good. 
You  believe  that,  don’t  you.  Mis’  Randall? 

Mrs.  R.  Why — a — yes,  Sophia,  I guess  so.  At  any 
rate,  I believe  you  mean  to  be  sincere  and  think 
you  get  “ messages,”  as  you  call  them. 

Sophia.  Oh,  you  must  believe  me,  Alis’  Randall,  you 
must.  {Rises,  goes  and  looks  np  c.,  then  r.  ajid  l.  ) 
You  must  believe,  for  I — I have  a message  for 
you. 

Mrs.  R.  For  me,  Sophia  ? Why,  what  do  you  mean — 
from — not  from  your  Indian  girl  ? 

Sophia  {mysteriously,  in  subdued  tones).  Yes,  from 
my  “ control.”  When  she  was  speaking  to  me 
then,  just  now,  I got  your  name — it  was  a message 
for  you — but  I didn’t  want  them  to  know.  They 
don’t  believe — they  interfere  with  the  influence — 
so  I had  to  wait  till  I could  see  you  alone. 

{She  glances  about.) 

Mrs.  R.  Dear  me,  Sophia,  you  make  me  absolutely  un- 
comfortable sometimes.  I’d  rather  you  wouldn’t — 
I — really,  I don’t  want  your  message,”  as  you 
call  it.  I don’t  mean  to  be  ungrateful,  but 

Sophia  {grasping  chair).  I feel  as  if  I was  going 
again — she  is  calling  me.  Yes,  Prairie  Flower — 
I hear {Sinks  into  chair.) 

!Mrs.  R.  Oh,  Sophia,  don’t — try  not  to — really,  I 
don’t  want  to  know,  and  you  make  me  nervous. 
I’ll  call  Jessie. 


30 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


(Starts  K, ; Sophia  grasps  her  hand,  or  dress,  detains 
her.) 

Sophia.  No,  no — stay!  You  must  listen.  It  is 
a])out — about  your  boy 

Mrs.  R.  Philip?  About  Philip? 

Sophia.  No — the  other  one. 

Mrs.  R.  Tom!  It  is  something  about  Tom? 

(Sophia  is  now  again  in  a " trance,**  though  less  deeply 
than  before.  Her  eyes  are  closed.  She  speaks 
softly,  but  distinctly.) 

Sophia.  I see  high  walls — stone  walls.  Iron  bars — 
gates — men  in — uniforms?  No,  not  uniforms. 
They  are  not  soldiers.  But  they  are  dressed 
alike — they  are  marching.  There,  now  they  break 
ranks.  They — ah  ! — I see  one — he  goes — he  is 

called.  He  says,  “ Tell  my  mother ''  Yes,  I 

hear.  I see.  The  gates  open — he  comes  out — 
he — a-ah ! 

(She  sinks  for  a moment,  as  if  exhausted.  < Mrs.  R. 
has  become  very  much  interested,  as  the  import  of 
what  Sophia  says  gradually  dawns  upon  her.) 

Mrs.  R.  Sophia ! Sophia  Ash ! What  do  you  mean  ? 
What  were  you  talking  about  ? You  were  making 
it  all  up.  It  isn’t  right.  It  is  wicked — wicked ! 

Sophia  (coming  to).  What!  What  have  I said? 
Have  I told  you  anything.  Mis’  Randall  ? 

Mrs.  R.  Told  me  anything?  As  if  you  didn’t  know. 
I am  sui*prised  at  you,  Sophia  Ash,  a good  church 
member,  that  you  should  give  yourself  up  to  such 
practices.  How  can  you  ? 

Sophia.  Oh,  Mis’  Randall,  don’t  you  go  back  on  me 
too.  Even  the  minister  says  it  is  my  own  imagina- 
tion. He  said  if  it  wasn’t  it  must  be — yes,  he 
actually  said  “ the  power  of  the — the  Evil  One.” 
What  do  you  think  of  that? 

Mrs.  R.  Well,  of  course,  I wouldn’t  want  to  contra- 

31 


FOB  THE  OLD  FLAG 


diet  anything  the  minister  said.  I have  great  con- 
fidence in  his  opinion. 

Sophia.  Oh,  yes,  I suppose  you  agree  with  him. 
Well,  I can’t  help  it.  I give  my  messages  as  they 
come  to  me,  and  if  folks  won’t  accept  ’em,  that 
ain’t  my  fault.  But  when  Prairie  Flower  calls,  I 
have  to  answer. 

Jessie  ( off  r.  ) . Mother ! 

Mrs.  R.  And  when  Jessie  calls,  I must  answer.  It 
means  supper’s  ready.  You’ll  stay  and  eat  with 
us,  Sophia? 

Sophia.  Thanks,  but  you  got  so  many,  I guess  I’d 
better  be  getting  along. 

Mrs.  R.  (m  door  r.).  Oh,  there’s  always  room  for 
one  more.  You  might  as  well  stay. 

I\^  {suddenly  appearing  r.).  Say,  Mis’  Randall, 
Jessie  wants  t’  know  ’f  we  shall  cut  that  raisin 
cake? 

Mrs.  R.  Certainly,  Ivy.  That  will  go  nicely  with 
your  apple  sauce. 

Ivy.  Yes’m.  I’ll  tell  ’er. 

{Exit,  r.) 

Mrs.  R.  Come,  Sophia. 

Sophia.  Well,  mebbe  I will.  If  I could  help  a little, 
or  anything.  I’d  be  glad  to. 

Mrs.  R.  Oh,  I guess  we  won’t  need  any  help.  But 
you  come. 

Sophia.  Well,  seeing  you  insist 

Mrs.  R.  Why,  of  course  I do.  You  go  right  in  and 
I’ll  call  the  others.  {Exit  Sophia,  r.  Mrs.  R. 
goes  up  to  door  c.,  calls  off  to  l.)  Philip ! Lucy ! 
Come — supper  is  ready ! You  all  come  in  now. 

{She  stands,  waiting;  there  is  a brief  pause,  then  enter 
Philip  from  l.,  through  door  at  c.,  with  Lucy, 
followed  by  Rodney,  then  by  Hezekiah.) 

Philip.  Here  we  are.  Mother.  Lucy  didn’t  want  to 
come,  but  I made  her. 

32 


FOB  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Mrs.  R.  Why,  certainly.  I'd  feel  it  terribly,  Lucy, 
if  you  didn't  stay. 

Lucy  {smiling).  Then  I’ll  stay,  of  course.'  Besides, 
Tin  just  dying  to,  to  tell  the  truth. 

{Enter  Jessie,  r.) 

Jessie.  Come  on,  you  folks.  Supper's  all  ready. 

{Exeunt  Jessie  and  Lucy,  r.,  looking  hack.  Pittlip 
and  Rodney  are  l.  c.  ; Hezekiah  still  has  flag, 
zvhich  he  now  goes  and  lays  on  table.  Philip 
places  his  soldier  cap  or  hat  on  flag.) 

Philip  {crossing  to  r.).  Come,  Rodney,  now  for  some 
home  cooking. 

Rodney.  Delighted.  I'm  hungry  enough  to  appre- 
ciate it,  too. 

Philip.  Oh,  you  don't  have  to  be  hungry  to  appre- 
ciate Mother’s  things. 

Mrs.  R.  Phil ! Don’t  mind  him,  Mr.  Hunt.  But  I 
hope  you  do  enjoy  your  supper. 

Rodney.  Indeed  I shall,  Mrs.  Randall.  I can  hardly 
wait. 

(Philip  goes  off  to  r.  Rodney  follows  him  off. 

Hezekiai-i  goes  to  door  r.) 

Hezekiah.  Nice  of  you  t'  ask  me  too.  Mis'  Randall. 
D'  know  when  I’ve  et  one  o'  your  meals. 

Mrs.  R.  Why,  the  party  wouldn’t  be  complete  with- 
out you,  Hezekiah — the  “ Old  Veteran  ” and  the 
“ New  Volunteer,”  you  know. 

Hezekiah.  That’s  right — 'n'  the  Stars  'n'  Stripes 
f 'rever ! 

Mrs.  R.  Yes,  Hezekiah — forever  and  forever!  {He 
exits  R.,  chuckling  happily.  She  stands  a moment, 
in  silent  thought,  then  crosses  to  table,  takes  up' 
Philip's  hat,  looks  at  it  fondly,  proudly.)  My 
boy — my  handsome  soldier  boy!  And  oh,  how 
gladly  I would  send  him,  too — my  other  boy — if 
he  could  be  here  to  go — free  from  the  shadow  that 
hangs  over  him.  c3li,  Philip — Tom — my  boys  I 

33 


FOB  THE  OLD  FLAG 


(Off  R.,  ihe  others  have  been  heard  laughing  and  talk- 
ing; they  have  now  started  singing,  not  too  loudly, 
'‘The  Star  Spangled  Banner.”  Mrs.  R.  caresses 
hat,  takes  up  corner  of  flag  and  kisses  it  reverently, 
weeping,  hut  smiling  through  her  tears.  She  re- 
mains thus  a moment,  then  sinks  into  chair,  hiiries 
her  face  in  flag  on  table,  weeping,  with  the  hat  still 
clasped  in  her  hand.  There  is  a pause,  then  Tom 
Randall,  poorly  clad,  pale  and  ill-looking,  appears 
at  window,  looks  in,  sees  Mrs.  R.  His  face 
quivers,  as  he  stands  there,  then  he  disappears  and 
shortly  appears  in  door  c.,  pauses  again,  then 
slowly  conies  down  to  c.,  near  Mrs.  R.,  stands 
looking  down  at  her.  He  seems  about  to  speak, 
falters,  then  murmurs,  “Mother!  ” She  looks 
up,  bewildered,  at  first  does  not  seem  to  recognize 
him,  then,  with  a broken  cry  of  joy,  holds  up  her 
arms;  he  sinks  to  his  knees  at  her  side,  burying- 
his  face  in  her  lap,  sobbing.  She  thoughtlessly 
hangs  on  to  flag,  pulls  it  over  his  head,  bending 
over  him  and  murmuring  “My  boy!  My  boy!” 
The  singing  of  the  anthem,  off  r.,  continues  as  the 
curtain  falls.) 


CURTAIN 


ACT  II 


SCENE. — Same  as  Act  I,  the  next  afternoon.  The 
flag  previously  used  is  still  on  table,  or  standing 
against  wall,  near  door  at  c.  Curtain  rises  on 
empty  stage,  but  Mrs.  R.  at  once  looks  in  from  R., 
cautiously,  then  enters,  goes  to  l.,  then  to  door  c, 
looking  careftdly  about.  Goes  to  R.  and  motions. 
Enter  Ivy,  with  tray,  on  which  are  several  dishes 
covered  with  cloth.  Ivy  shows  wonderment,  look- 
ing about  curiously. 

Mrs.  R.  All  right,  Ivy ; bring  it  in.  There’s  no  one 
here. 

Ivy.  I see  they  ain’t,  Mis’  Randall,  but  I’m  jest  dyin’ 
t’  know  what ’s  all  about  ’n’  who  this  lunch  is  f’r. 
You’ve  had  yours. 

Mrs.  R.  Yes,  Ivy,  but  there’s  some  one  who  hasn’t 
had  any — up-stairs,  in  the  spare  room. 

Ivy  (.yc>  surprised  she  almost  drops  tray).  For  the 
land’s  sake — in  the  spare  room!  Who  is  it,  Mis’ 
Randall — a tramp  ? 

Mrs.  R.  Why,  no,  of  course  not.  It’s — ^but  I can’t 
tell  you  yet ; and  you  know  you  promised  to  help 
me  and  not  say  a word. 

Ivy.  Sure  I did,  ’n’  I won’t.  But  I can’t  help  won- 
derin’. Ain’t  you  afeared,  ’r  anything?  When 
did  he  come  ? 

Mrs.  R.  Last  night,  while  they  were  all  eating  supper. 
I took  him  up-stairs,  before  they  got  through,  and 
none  of  them  knew.  I had  to  tell  you,  so  you  can 
help  me  get  his  meals  to  him  and  other  things,  and 
I’ll  tell  the  others  soon.  But  not  just  yet.  I’ll 
take  the  tray  now  and  go  up  with  it.  And  you 
keep  watch,  and  mind  you  don’t  tell  anybody. 

{She  takes  tray,  goes  l.) 

35 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Ivy  {dumbfounded) . Xo’ni,  I won’t  tell.  But — sf 
man  iip-stairs  in  the  spare  room — be’n  there  all 
night.  Mercy  me ! Is — is  it  anybuddy  y’  know, 
]\Iis’  Randall,  so ’t  you’re  sure  he’s  safe  ? 

Mrs.  R.  {in  door  l.).  Oh,  yes — somebody  I know — 
well.  Some  one  I have  known  a long  time  and 
longed  to  see — some  one 

{Exit  Mrs.  R.,  at  l.,  with  tray.  Ivy  stands  a moment 
looking  after  her,  in  dumb  amazement,  then  starts 
R.,  but  pauses  as  Sophia  Ash  appears  in  door  c. 
and  knocks.) 

Ivy.  Oh,  ’s  that  you,  ]\Iiss  Ash? 

{Enter  Sophia,  door  c.) 

Sophia.  Ain’t  there  anybuddy  here.  Ivy?  I want  t’ 
see  Mis’  Randall.  I hurried  all  the  way  over  in 
the  hot  sun,  b’cause  I’ve  got  somethin’  important 
to  tell  her.  I’m  jest  about  melted,  but  I couldn’t 
get  here  soon  enough,  with  what’s  on  my  mind. 

{Sits,  L.  c.,  takes  paper  or  fan  from  table,  or  uses  fan 
which  she  carries,  fanning  herself.) 

I\w.  I s’pose  it’s  another  one  o’  them  visions,  ’r  what- 
ever you  call  ’em.  Y’  goin’  t’  have  another  fit 
here  ’n  our  sett’n’-room  ? If  y’  be,  I’ll  be  goin’. 

Sophia.  Oh,  you  don’t  know  what  you’re  talkin’ 
about.  {Sits  l.)  What  d’  you  know  about  the 
other  world  ’n’  communications,  ’n’  spirit-mes- 
sages, and  such?  It’s  beyond  your  grasp.  But 
you  ain’t  the  only  one.  What  I endure ’s  enough 
t’  try  the  patience  of  a Mrs.  Job.  There’s  that 
Hezekiah  Wilkins.  He  never  gives  me  a minute’s 
peace.  Taggin’  me  around,  askin’  ’f  I’ve  had  any 
more  spirits  tell  me  I ought  t’  b’come  Mrs.  Wilkins 
number  three.  The  idee!  That  old  fossil!  If 
I wanted  a man,  I’d  get  a hull  one,  not  a mere 
remnant. 


(Ivy,  lip  c.,  looks  off  to  l.) 
36 


FOR  TEE  OLD  FLAG 


Ivy.  Here  he  comes  now.  Guess  he’s  still  on  the 
trail. 

Sophia  {rising,  going  up  and  looking  off).  I declare, 
so  ’tis.  Foliered  me.  I thought  Fd  dodged  him. 
If  that  man’s  p’rposed  t’  me  once  he  has  fifty 
times,  ’n’  it  don’t  seem  t’  do  no  good  t’  refuse  him. 
He  jest  won’t  take  “ No  ” for  an  answer. 

Ivy.  Well,  ’tain’t  every  girl ’t  has  fifty  pr’posals. 

Sophia  {simpering  a hit) . N-no,  of  course  not.  But, 
then,  I d’  know’s  it’s  s’  much,  after  all,  bein’  they’re 
all  from  the  same  man.  Here  he  comes.  Guess 
I’ll  go  ’ll  the  other  room,  ’n’  mebbe  he’ll  go  away. 
Don’t  you  tell  him  I’m  here. 

{She  pretends  to  go,  hut  lingers  l.,  so  that  Hezekiah 
sees  her,  as  he  enters  door  c.  from  l.  She  pauses 
as  he  calls  to  her. ) 

Hezekiah.  Oh,  you  here,  Sophi’?  Afternoon. 

Sophia.  Jes’  ’s  if  you  didn’t  know.  You  can’t  fool 
me,  Hezekiah  Wilkins.  You  saw  me  the  hull  time. 

Hezekiah.  Nothin’  strange,  is  it,  Sophi’?  Don’t  see 
nothin’  ’r  nobuddy  else,  when  you’re  ’round.  Be’n 
tellin’  y’  that  for  the  last  eight  ’r  ten  year,  ain’t  I? 

Sophia.  Yes,  ’n’  I should  think  you’d  ’a’  made  up 
your  mind  by  this  time  that  it  ain’t  no  use.  I 
should  think  at  your  age,  ’n’  had  two  wives  al- 
ready, you’d  have  some  sense. 

Hezekiah.  That’s  so.  Mebbe  ’f  I had,  I wouldn’t 
want  y’. 

Sophia.  Oh,  indeed ! Well,  thank  goodness  I’ve  got 
sense  enough  not  t’  take  y’,  anyway. 

Hezekiah.  Now,  Sophi’,  I didn’t  mean  nothin’.  You 
know  you’re  the  only  woman  in  the  world  f’r 
me 

{He  goes  to  her,  tries  to  pacify  her,  ahout  to  put  arm 
about  her;  she  gets  away  from  him,  though,  with 
all  her  contrariness,  still  seeming  to  encourage 
him.  Ivy  has  gone  to  l.  and  keeps  cautiously 
looking  off.) 


37 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Sophia.  Behave  yourself,  Hezekiah  Wilkins!  Tm 
astonished  at  your  actions,  after  all  the  times  Tve 
told  you {Noiicing  Ivy.)  Who  you  look- 

ing for,  Ivy?  What  is  it? 

Ivy.  Nothin’.  I was  jest — I was  thinkin’  I’d  go  ’n’ 
pick  some  cucumbers  for  supper,  ’n’ 

Sophia.  Land,  they  ain’t  no  cucumbers  in  there,  is 
they  ? 

Ivy.  No,  of  course  not.  I — I was  goin’  in  the  garden. 
{Up  in  door  c.)  I’ll  go  ’n’  pick  some. 

{Exit  through  door  c.  to  r.  Sophia  is  c,  Hezekiah 
R.  c.) 

Sophia.  Don’t  she  act  funny?  They’s  somethin’ 
strange  goin’  on  here.  Did  you  notice  anything 
last  night,  Hezekiah  ? 

Hezekiah.  I d’  know’s  I did — ’nless  y*  mean  that 
“ trance  ” o’  yours.  Wish  you’d  give  ’em  up, 
Sophi’.  They  make  you  ridic’lous. 

Sophia.  Oh,  they  do,  do  they  ? Well,  I couldn’t  give 
’em  up  if  I tried.  They  come  to  me.  As  I was 
sayin’,  didn’t  you  notice  how  queer  Mis’  Randall 
acted?  She  didn’t  come  in  to  supper  for  ten  or 
fifteen  minutes  after  we’d  started  eatin’,  ’n’  then 
she  acted  so  strange-like.  But  I laid  it  to  the 
message  I’d  give  her.  I sort  o’  didn’t  wonder  it 
upset  her. 

Hezekiah.  Oh ! had  a “ message  ” for  her,  did  y’  ? 
From  the  spirits? 

Sophia.  From  the  spirit- world.  Quite  direct.  It 
was  all  perfectly  clear. 

Hezekiah.  From  that  Injun  gal? 

Sophia.  Yes — from  my  control.  Prairie  Flower. 

Hezekiah.  Pretty  thing  t’  be  controlled  by — a Injun 
spook!  What  you  need  t’  control  y’  is  a hus- 
band, Sophi’. 

Sophia.  Oh,  indeed!  I’d  like  t’  see  the  one  that 
could  do  it ! 

Hezekiah  {straightening  up,  pompously) . Behold! 

Sophia.  Good  land,  an  old  broken-down,  wizened-up 

38 


JFOB  THE  OLD  FLAG 


left-over  like  you ! Looks  more  like  Fd  have  you 
F take  care  of. 

Hezekiah.  Wal,  that’d  suit  me,  Sophi’ ! 

Sophia.  I don’t  doubt  il.  But  it  wouldn’t  suit  me, 
not  a little  bit.  For  the  land’s  sake,  think  of  some- 
thing else.  Fill  wonderin’  about  Mis’  Randall. 
Jessie  noticed  it,  too,  and  spoke  to  me  afterward. 
She  said  her  mother  acted  as  if  she’d  seen  a ghost, 
’n’  I’ve  b’en  worryin’  for  fear  Fd  upset  her.  Then 
I got  another  message  last  night,  in  the  middle  of 
the  night — direct  from  Prairie  Flower — to  come 
over  here  to-day  and  await  developments.  I think 
something’s  going  t’  happen. 

Hezekiah.  Mebbe  they  is,  Sophi’,  mebbe  they  is. 
Mebbe  you’re  goin’ t’  say  Yes.” 

Sophia.  Huh  1 Mebbe  I ain’t,  any  such  thing.  {Go- 
ing up.)  I’m  goin’  on  to  the  post-office,  ’n’  stop 
on  my  way  back.  I’ve  got  t’  see  Mis’  Randall,  but 
they’s  no  use  wastin’  time. 

Hezekiah.  Want  comp’ny,  Sophi’?  I’ve  got  t’  go 
to  the  post-office,  too. 

Sophia  {in  door  c. ; he  c.).  No,  I don’t.  {About  to 
go,  then  turning  hack.)  But,  of  course,  if  you 
want  t’  go  to  the  post-office,  it  ain’t  none  o’  my 
business.  I couldn’t  stop  y’. 

Hezekiah  {going  up,  with  alacrity) . Guess  that’s  so. 
Thanks  f’r  the  hint. 

Sophia.  Hint ! The  idee ! I guess  when  I hint  t’ 
you,  Hezekiah  Wilkins 

{Exit  through  door  c.  to  r.  He  follows  her  off,  chuck- 
ling to  himself.  There  is  a slight  pause,  then 
Jessie  and  Rodney  enter  door  from  l.  c.  They 
look  off  to  R.,  after  Hezekiah  and  Sophia.) 

Jessie.  There  go  Hezekiah  Wilkins  and  Sophia  Ash. 
He’s  been  courting  her  for  the  last  ten  years  or 
more,  and  she  is  still  holding  him  off. 

{They  enter,  come  down  r.) 

Rodney.  Well,  there’s  nothing  like  persistency. 

39 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Faint  heart  never  won/'  you  know.  Perhaps  he 
may  still  win  her. 

Jessie.  Perhaps.  He  would,  I think,  if  he  would  only 
let  her  do  part  of  the  courting.  She  feels  too  sure 
of  him.  Once  she  thought  she  was  going  to  lose 
him 

Rodney.  Oh,  that’s  the  idea!  But  it  doesn’t  always 
work,  does  it?  Circumstances  alter  cases,  you 
know,  and  I’m  quite  sure  I wouldn’t  want  to  try 
such  tactics  with — well,  with  the  girl  I am  anxious 
to  win.  She  isn’t  that  kind. 

Jessie.  But  I wasn’t  thinking  of  you. 

Rodney.  No.  That’s  just  it.  And  I want  you  to. 
The  way  I think  of  you.  Won’t  you — Jessie? 

{He  is  close  to  her;  attempts  to  take  her  hand.  She 
draws  away.) 

Jessie.  No — don’t.  I — I can’t  let  you  do  that. 

Rodney.  But  why?  Why  shouldn’t  you  let  me  tell 
you  I — I love  you  ? Surely,  it’s  every  man’s  privi- 
lege to  tell  his  love  and  every  girl’s  privilege  to 
listen. 

Jessie.  No,  no — I 

Rodney.  You  know  how  I feel  toward  you.  You 
must  know.  I have  been  here  two  summers  now, 
and  you  cannot  have  failed  to  see  that  I love  you — 
that  I want  you — and 

Jessie.  Wait,  Mr.  Hunt 

Rodney.  “ Mister  ” 

Jessie.  Well — Rodney.  I — no,  of  course  I can’t  say 
that  I haven’t  noticed — that  I have  never  thought 
of  all  this.  But  I have  tried  not  to  take  it  too 
seriously,  because — because  I felt — I know — that 
you  mustn’t  tell  me,  and  I must  not  listen. 

Rodney.  But  why — why ? 

Jessie.  You  know — you  must  know.  My  world  is 
not  the  same  as  yours.  I am  only  a country  girl — 
oh,  yes,  I am — nothing  more.  Of  course,  I don’t 
pretend  to  think  I am  not  just  as  good,  perhaps,  as 
some  of  those  who  have  had  more  advantages  and 
40 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


seen  more  of  the  world  than  I have.  And  1 don’t 
say  you  don’t  think  I am  as  good  as  they.  But 
you  lead  a different  life.  Your  folks  are — well, 
what  would  they  think  of  me ? 

Rodney.  Think?  Why,  that  you  are  the  sweetest 
little  girl  in  the  world — and  that  I was  the  luckiest 
man  there  is  in  all  that  world,  if  I could  win  you. 
Oh,  I know  what  you  mean.  You  are  afraid  of 
me — afraid  to  trust  me.  You  think  I wouldn’t 
■ keep  on  loving  you — that  I would  change,  and 

Jessie.  No,  no,  it  isn’t  that — not  altogether.  It  is 
partly  that,  I’ll  admit,  but — there  is  something 
else — more — oh,  much  more.  Shall  I tell  you? 

Rodney.  To  be  sure.  I want  to  hear  it. 

Jessie.  Very  well.  You  ought  to  be  told.  I guess 
you  have  been.  But  now  I will  tell  you.  You  are 
nothing  but  a rich  man’s  son — an  idler — of  no 
use — no  good  to — to  any  one — to  your  country  ! 

Rodney.  Oh,  you  mean — {turning  azvay)  I — see. 

Jessie.  I hope  you  do.  I want  you  to  see.  I have 
no  use  for  a young  man  now,  one  that  is  strong 
and  able,  who  wears  any  suit  but  his  country’s 
uniform. 

Rodney.  I — I thought  that  had  something  to  do 
with  it. 

Jessie.  Something  to  do  with  it?  It  has  everything. 
Now  you  are  to  me  nothing  but  a young  man  who 
is  needed  by  his  country,  but  who  shuns  that  need 
and  hangs  back.  A “ slacker.”  Yes,  that’s  what 
you  are.  Do  you  think  I could  listen  to  you — let 
you  tell  me  you  “ love  ” me — and  not  tell  you  how 
I feel?  Why,  I should  think  I was  a traitor  too, 
if  I did. 

Rodney.  ‘^Traitor.  ” I must  say,  you  are  putting  it 
pretty  strong.  I guess  if  that’s  the  way  you  feel, 
I might  as  well  be  going. 

Jessie.  Yes,  I guess  so.  Oh,  Mr.  Hunt — Rodney — 
you’re  not  going  to  be  a “ slacker  ” ! Tell  me  you 
are  not. 

{He  has  gone  part  way  up  c.  She  is  down  r.  c. 

41 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


There  is  a pause.  He  goes  up,  stands  in  door  c., 
looking  off.  Turns,  conies  down.) 

Rodney.  I will  tell  you  that  there  is  not  another  per- 
son in  this  world  I would  let  talk  to  me  as  you 
have  done.  You  have  called  me  a coward — a 
“ traitor.”  Well,  I suppose  that’s  what  you  think 
I am.  But  you  don’t  understand.  The  truth  is, 

I don’t  want  to  go  to  war.  I don’t  believe  in  it. 
Oh,  I suppose  you  will  despise  me  worse  than  ever.  ‘ 
I don’t  call  it  cowardice  or  treason,  or  anything 
like  that.  I just  don’t  feel,  yet,  that  we  ought  to 
be  in  this  war — nor  that,  even  if  we  are,  I ought 
to  go  into  it.  There ! Now  tell  me  you  hate  me — 
that  I must  go  and  never  see  you  again.  Just  be- 
cause I have  confessed  to  you — told  you  the  truth. 

Jessie.  The  truth.  That  makes  it  all  the  worse,  be- 
cause you  expect  me  to  believe  that  it  is  the  truth. 
But  I hope  you  will  come  to  your  senses  yet — 
that  you  will  change  your  mind.  But  until  you 
do — yes,  you  might  as  well  go.  I don’t  think  I 
care  to  see  you  again  until  I can  respect  you,  at 
least. 

Rodney  {closer  to  her).  Don’t  you  think  you  are 
putting  it  pretty  strong?  Even  you  may  go  a 
little  too  far,  you  know. 

Jessie  (facing  him  boldly).  No,  I can’t.  I can’t  go 
too  far  when  it  comes  to  telling  a slacker  and  a 
coward  what  I think  of  him — and  I begin  to  think 
that’s  what  I’m  talking  to  now. 

Rodney.  And  I begin  to  think  you  are  just  talking 
for  effect 

Jessie.  Then  let  me  tell  you  that  I hope  it  has  the 
effect  I mean  it  to  have.  My  brother  is  a soldier, 
and 

Rodney.  Yes,  but  not  from  choice.  He  wouldn’t  be 
wearing  that  uniform  if  he  had  his  way  about  it. 

Jessie.  You  dare ! — 3'OU  dare  call  my  brother  a cow- 
ard? Oh,  now  I do  despise  you — I do,  I do  ! Go  ! 
Go  away  from  here — from  me — I don’t  want  to 
see  you  again,  ever ! I wish  I never  had  seen  you  | 
42 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


{She  is  in  a fury  of  grief  and  anger.  He  is  showing 
amazement  and  some  anger,  but  is  beginning  to  be 
sorry  for  what  he  has  said.  Would  appease  her, 
but  she  flares  at  him,  and  he  goes  up,  just  as 
Philip  enters  at  door  c.  from  r.,  putting  out  his 
arms  and  stopping  Rodney,  who  looks  at  him  sur- 
prised, somewhat  sheepishly.) 

Philip.  Why,  why,  what’s  all  this  ? What’s  the 
matter?  Are  you  two  quarreling? 

Rodney.  I have  nothing  to  say  except  that  I — Pm 
sorry,  and  Pm  going. 

{He  tries  to  go,  but  Philip  detains  him.) 

Philip.  Wait.  I want  to  get  at  this.  What’s  it  all 
about  ? 

Rodney.  Nothing.  Only  we — we  can’t  agree,  that’s 
all,  and  your  sister  told  me  to  leave  her,  that  she 
doesn’t  want  to  have  anything  more  to  do  with 
me,  and  that — well,  Pll  let  her  explain.  Pm  sorry. 
Miss  Randall,  if  I have  offended  you.  Perhaps 
some  day  you  will  think  better  of  me. 

{He  bows  to  her,  with  cold  politeness  and  exits  at  door 
c.  to  L.  Philip  looks  after  him,  in  amazement, 
then  comes  dozvn  to  Jessie,  who  is  r.  c.,  standing 
with  her  back  to  him,  between  anger  and  tears. ) 

Philip.  Well,  well,  I guess  something  is  up,  and  no 
mistake.  Come,  now — ’fess  up.  What’s  it  all 
about  ? 

Jessie.  Oh,  it’s  enough.  He  said  he  doesn’t  feel  that 
it’s  his  duty  to  fight,  and — I called  him  a coward, 
and — and  told  him  I never  want  to  see  him  again 
and 

Philip.  And — and — a lot  of  stuff  like  that.  You 
shouldn’t  have  taken  him  quite  so  seriously,  Jessie. 
Rod  is  no  coward;  it’s  the  way  he’s  been  raised, 
that’s  all.  Lived  in  luxury  all  his  life,  with  a dot- 
ing mother  and  everything  he  wanted.  You  can’t 
expect  a fellow  like  that  to  be  very  keen  about 

43 


FOR  TEE  OLD  FLAG 


wearing  a uniform  and  putting  up  wlih  what 
he’d  have  to. 

Jessie.  Indeed!  How  much  better  is  he  than  you, 
I should  like  to  know?  I agree  with  IMr.  Wilkins 
about  him.  He’s  the  kind  that  could  be  spared, 
instead  of  the  real  men  that  don’t  wait  till  they 
are  compelled  to  go.  I guess  you  wouldn’t  stick 
up  for  him  quite  so  fast  if  you  knew  what  he 
said  about  you. 

Philip.  Said  I wasn’t  crazy  about  going  myself,  I 
suppose?  Oh,  he’s  said  the  same  to  me,  and  I 
guess  maybe  it’s  the  truth — in  a v.'ay.  {She  shows 
signs  of  disapproval.)  There,  there,  now,  little 
one,  don’t  explode.  I’m  going,  all  i\ght.  Isn’t 
that  enough  for  you? 

Jessie.  No,  it  isn’t — not  if  you  don’t  want  to  go,  and 
feel  it’s  a privilege.  But  I know  you  do,  Phil. 
You’re  only  trying  to  tease  me.  I couldn’t  bear 
to  think  you  are  not  a real,  true  soldier  at  heart. 

Philip  {putting  an  arm  about  her).  Well,  then  you 
just  think  I’m  eveiy’thing  you  want  me  to  be,  little 
sister,  and  I’ll  try  to  live  up  to  it.  And  don’t  feel 
so  put  out  about  Rodney,  either.  He’ll  come  out 
all  right.  He  hasn’t  waked  up  yet,  that’s  all. 
There,  now  do  you  feel  better? 

Jessie.  Y-yes,  I guess  so. 

(Mrs.  R.  enters  l.,  with  tray,  unnoticed  by  them.  She 
quickly  exits  again,  unseen,  and  at  the  same 
moment  Lucy  Garrett  appears  at  door  c.  froniL.) 

Lucy.  Oh,  there  you  are — here,  rather.  Excuse  me 
for  not  knocking 

Philip.  Sure.  “ Don’t  knock.”  Had  enough  of  that 
around  here  already. 

Lucy.  Why,  what 

Jessie.  Don’t  m^ind  him,  Lucy.  He’s  only  teasing. 
Come  in. 

Philip.  Yes.  Take  off  your  hat  and  stay  a while. 
Stay  forever. 

Lucy.  Thanks,  but  I have  a home  of  my  own.  WTll, 
and  how’s  the  handsome  soldier  boy  to-day  ? 

44 


[FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


{Comes  down  c.) 

Philip.  Meaning — this  one? 

Lucy.  Why,  certainly.  You’re  the  only  one  around 
here,  aren’t  you? 

Philip.  M’m — yes,  the  only  soldier  boy,  I guess. 
But  Pm  not  (Juite  sure  I answer  your  descrip- 
tion — 

Jessie.  Oh,  stop  fishing.  Don’t  you  humor  him, 
Lucy.  He’s  too  stuck  up  for  anything  already. 
You  might  think  he  was  a general. 

Philip.  General  what?  Not  nuisance,  I hope? 

Jessie.  Sometimes  you  try  hard  enough  to  be.  But 
the  uniform  saves  you. 

Philip.  ’Neath  the  folds  of  the  Stars  and  Stripes ! ” 

Lucy.  I hope  they  protect  you  from  worse  things 
than  being  a nuisance,  Phil.  How  long  are  you 
staying  here  ? 

Philip.  I have  to  get  back  to  the  camp  soon — in  half 
an  hour  or  so.  Can’t  even  stay  to  supper.  But 
you’re  going  to  stay,  aren’t  you,  Lucy  ? 

Lucy.  What — again?  After  last  night?  You  must 
think  your  mother  wants  me  for  a boarder.  No, 
thank  you.  I only  ran  over  to  see  Jessie  a minute. 

Philip.  Cruel  one.  Where  do  I come  in  ? 

Lucy.  Why,  you  may  come  in  for  this  sweater,  if  I 
ever  get  it  done. 

'{She  has  knitting-hag,  which  she  now  opens,  taking 
out  knitting,  which  has  grown  several  rows  since 
first  act.) 

Jessie.  Oh,  is  that  what  it  is,  Lucy? 

Lucy.^  Not  is — going  to  be,  I hope.  At  least.  I’ve  de- 
cided that’s  what  I’ve  started  out  to  make.  Let’s 
see,  Phil.  Stand  still.  {She  measures  length  of 
knitting  on  his  hack.)  My,  what  shoulders  you 
have ! There’s  a lot  to  do  yet ! 

Jessie.  Why,  I think  you’re  getting  along  real  well. 

Philip.  Let’s  see.  {Examines  knitting.)  Why  don’t 
you  make  a pair  of  socks  of  it?  ’Twouldn’t  take 
so  long.  Save  yarn,  too. 

45 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Jessie.  Aren’t  you  ashamed  of  yourself,  Phil  Randall, 
after  her  saying  it’s  for  you?  Come  on,  Lucy. 
Don’t  pay  any  attention  to  him. 

{They  have  been  well  down  c.  Jessie  now  goes  up, 
moiionmg  Lucy  to  folloiv  her.) 

Philip.  Where  you  going? 

Jessie.  Ch,  just  out  in  the  yard.  Come  on,  Lucy. 

Philip.  Can’t  I come  too? 

Jessie.  No,  you  can’t.  We  have  something  to  talk 
over. 

Philip.  Not  over  an  hour  or  two,  I hope.  I can’t 
wait. 

(Jessie  and  Lucy  go  up;  he  follows.  Exit  Jessie  at 
door  c.  to  L.  Lucy  lingers  in  door  c.) 

Lucy.  We  won’t  be  long.  Mr.  Wilkins  has  had  us 
put  in  the  committee  for  the  parade  and  all,  and 
we  have  to  make  plans. 

Philip.  But  you  might  let  me  help.  (Lucy  is  about 
to  go  out,  but  he  goes  up  and  detains  her.)  Lucy — 
aren’t  you  going  to  change  your  mind  ? You  didn’t 
mean  what  you  said? 

Lucy.  Yes,  I did.  I meant  it — every  word  of  it. 
{He  has  hold  of  her  hand  or  arm.  She  releases 
herself  from  him.)  Don’t,  Phil. 

Philip.  But,  Lucy 

Lucy.  No.  It’s  no  use. 

{Exit  Lucy  hurriedly,  at  door  c.  to  l.  He  stands  look- 
ing after  her,  with  a disappointed,  then  an  angry 
expression.  After  a pause  clinches  his  fist,  with 
set  teeth,  showing  rage.  Walks  a few  steps  down 
c.,  then  turns  and  goes  up  rapidly,  and  at  door  c. 
collides  with  Oli\TiR,  who  enters  from  L.,  carrying 
two  or  three  packages.) 

Oliver  {stepping  quickly  to  one  side,  saluting).  Hi! 
Make  way  for  the  U.  S.  Army.  What’d  y’  take 
me  for — Germans? 


46 


' FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Philip.  Oh,  go  to—thunder ! 

{Exit  Philip,  door  c.  io  r.,  glancing  off  to  L.,  angrily. 
Oliver  goes  up,  looks  after  him,  then  to  l.) 

Oliver.'  Phew ! Hope  he  keeps  up  that  gait  when  he 
gets  t’  the  real  war.  Looks  like  he  could  kill  the 
Kaiser  V a hundred  Germans  's  easy’s  nothin’. 
{Goes  to  door  R.  Calls.)  Hey!  Anybuddy 
there  ? Mis’  Randall — Ivy — here’s  y’  groc’ries  1 

{Enter  Ivy,  door  c.  from  r.,  with  several  cucumbers, 
or  something  to  resemble  them,  in  her  apron. ) 

Ivy.  What’s  all  y’r  ’xcitement? 

Oliver.  Oh,  there  you  be!  Here’s  the  things  you 
sent  f’r. 

Ivy.  Well,  y’  needn’t  tear  the  house  down  a-deliverin’ 
’em.  Take  ’em  in  the  kitchen. 

{She  has  come  down  l.  ; he  crosses  to  her.) 

Oliver.  Yes,  little  Ivy-vine.  Come  along  ’n’  cling. 
Ivy  {slapping  him).  Oh,  hush  up,  with  that  old 
chestnut ! Can’t  you  think  of  a new  one  ? 

Oliver.  Sure.  “ You  be  my  poison  Ivy  ’n’  I’ll  be 
your  antidote ! ” 

Ivy.  Nanny-goat?  I guess  you’d  make  a good  one. 
Go  on.  Take  them  things  in  there ! 

Oliver.  Oh,  I’m  a-goin’. 

{She  runs  after  him-;  he  exits  quickly  r.,  looking  bach. 
She  is  about  to  follow  him,  but  pauses  up  c.  as 
Mrs.  R.  enters  l.,  with  tray.) 

Mrs.  R.  Ivy. 

Ivy.  Yes,  Mis’  Randall. 

Mrs.  R.  Take  this  tray,  please. 

Ivy  {takes  tray,  looks  under  napkin,  sees  empty  dishes). 

Oh,  Mis’  Randall,  who  is  it? 

Mrs.  R.  Never  mind,  now.  You  will  know  soon. 
But  for  the  present,  remember  what  I told  you, 

47 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


R’y  (r.).  Yes,  Mis’  Randall,  but  I — I’m  jest  dyin' 
know.  1 can’t  imagine 

I'Jrs.  R.  Well,  don’t  try.  You’ll  know  before  long. 

Ivy.  In  the  spare  room ! My  ! — I wonder  who  ’tis. 

{Exit  R.,  looking  at  dishes  under  napkin.  Mrs.  R. 
stands  a moment,  looks  to  l.,  with  a tender,  but 
sad,  expression.  Clasps  hands,  crosses  to  l.,  look- 
ing off,  shaking  head  slowly,  then  bowing  it,  with 
an  expression  denoting  a mingling  of  smiles  and 
tears.  Murmurs  softly.) 

Mrs.  R.  My  boy ! My  poor,  poor  boy ! My  little 
Tom 

(Sophia  Aspi  appears  in  door  c.,  from  r.  Stands  for 
a moment  regarding  Mrs.  R.  in  silence,  then  speaks 
softly. ) 

Sophia.  Mis’  Randall. 

Mrs.  R.  (l.  c.,  turning — startled).  Oh! — that  you, 
Sophia?  I — I didn’t  hear  you. 

Sophia  {up  c).  No,  I noticed  you  didn’t.  You 
seemed  lost.  You  was  talkin’  to  y’rself. 

{Comes  down  r.) 

Mrs.  R.  Was  I ? Oh,  I guess  I often  do  that.  It’s  a 
sort  of  a habit.  I can’t  seem  to  break  myself  of  it. 
Won’t  you  sit  down,  Sophia?  {Comes  dozvn  r.) 

Sophia.  Well,  mebbe  I will,  jest  for  a few  minutes. 
I’m  pretty  well  het  up,  and  some  excited. 

Mrs.  R.  Excited,  Sophia?  What  about? 

Sophia.  Oh,  several  things.  Hezekiah  Wilkins,  for 
one. 

Mrs.  R.  Hezekiah?  Oh,  I should  think  you’d  be 
used  to  him  by  this  time. 

Sophia.  Used  to  him?  Yes,  I s’pose  a person  can 
get  used  t’  anything  in  time — like  a bunion,  for 
instance — but  I declare  if  I can  get  used  t’  Heze- 
kiah Wilkins  enough  not  t’  notice  him. 

4? 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


(She  sits  'down  R.,  fanning  herself  wiih  nezvspaper  in 
a wrapper  which  she  has  just  procured  from  the 
post-office.) 

Mrs.  R.  That’s  just  it,  Sophia.  (Sits  r.  c.) 

Sophia.  Just  what? 

Mrs.  R.  Why,  there’s  a reason  for  it.  If  it  meant 
nothing  to  you,  you  wouldn’t  notice  him. 

Sophia.  That’s  jest  what  it  does  mean — nothin’. 
The  idee — Hezekiah  Wilkins,  that  old  fossil  with 
one  leg ’s  good ’s  in  the  grave. 

Mrs.  R.  Yes,  but  a soldier’s  leg  and  a soldier’s  grave, 
Sophia.  Think  of  that.  Hezekiah  is  a good  man 
and  a soldier.  You  know  how  long  he’s  been 
courting  you ; and  he  never  gives  up  hope. 

Sophia.  Mis’  Randall ! Do  you  think  I’d  ever  take 
Hezekiah  Wilkins? 

Mrs.  R.  Why,  yes,  Sophia.  Why  not  ? 

Sophia.  Land!  You  must  think  I want  to  start  a 
soldiers’  home. 

Mrs.  R.  Well,  why  not?  You’ve  got  a good  home  to 
take  him  to,  and  he  has  a nice  pension  to  do  his 
share  with.  Hasn’t  “ Prairie  Flower  ” ever  re- 
vealed him  to  you,  Sophia? 

Sophia.  Huh ! I guess  Prairie  Flower’s  got  bigger 
things  to  reveal  ’n  Hezekiah  Wilkins.  That’s  what 
I wanted  to  see  you  about.  Mis’  Randall.  I’ve  got 
something  to  communicate.  (Mysteriously.) 

Mrs.  R.  Oh,  Sophia ! Another  message  ? 

Sophia.  Yes.  Real  definite  this  time.  (Looking 
about.)  They  ain’t  nobuddy  listenin’,  is  they? 

Mrs.  R.  (she  is  still  standing,  now  goes  up,  looks  about, 
then  comes  back  to  c.).  No.  Jessie  and  Lucy 
Garrett  are  out  there,  but  they  can’t  hear. 

Sophia.  And  Phil  ? 

Mrs.  R.  He  isn’t  around  anywhere  just  ndw.  If  you 
really  must  tell  me  something,  you  are  quite  safe. 
Nobody  will  hear. 

Sophia.  All  right.  Set  down.  Mis’  Randall.  Pull 
your  chair  up  close.  (Mrs.  R.  puts  chair  near 
SopPiiA,  sits.)  You  know  what  I told  you  yes- 

49 


FOB  THE  OLD  FLAG 


terday  when  I was  here — about  what  Prairie 
Flower  revealed  to  me  ? 

Mrs.  R.  Yes.  You  said  she  showed  you — iron 
bars — gates  opening — and — and  some  one  coming 
out 

Sophia.  And  do  you  know  who  that  somebuddy  was  ? 
Oh,  Mis’  Randall,  don’t  you  know  ? 

Mrs.  R.  Do  you  know,  Sophia  ? 

Sophia.  Yes,  I — know.  I saw  him. 

Mrs.  R.  {rising,  excitedly).  Saw  him?  In  one  of 
your — trances,  do  you  mean  ? 

Sophia  {also  standing).  Partly.  That  way  first. 
That  is — it  came  to  me,  in  a way — so  that  I sort  o’ 
knew  what  it  meant,  and  then — I saw — with  my 
own  eyes.  I saw  him — and  knew  him. 

Mrs.  R.  YTien? 

Sophia.  Why,  it  was  yesterday — jest  before  I come 
over  here.  On  the  way  over.  I was  cornin’ 
along,  and  he  dodged  back,  sort  of,  b’hind  some 
bushes,  up  there  on  the  corner,  by  Garretts’  place. 
I jest  caught  a glimpse  of  his  face,  but  I knew 
him — leastwise  I thought  I did.  But  I didn’t  jest 
sense  it,  then.  I seemed  t’  kind  o’  think  it  was  a 
vision-like — ’t  mebbe  I was  half  in  a trance,  and — 
I thought  I hadn’t  better  tell  you,  too  plain.  Jest 
give  you  a warnin’ — as  if  it  had  come  to  me,  from 
Prairie  Flower,  y’  know.  Jest  enough  so ’t  you’d 
be  kind  of  prepared,  in  case  it  was  him,  really,  ’n’ 
he  should  come  in  on  y’.  I was  afeared  mebbe, 
if  it  was  loo  sudd’n,  it  might  be  too  much  for  y’. 
I meant  well,  Mis’  Randall. 

Mrs.  R.  I know  you  did,  Sophia.  I suppose  it  was 
kind  of  you,  too.  I’m  sure  you  meant  it  to  be. 
But  it  wa.sn’t  necessary.  I have  been  watching, 
waiting,  never  giving  up  hope  that  he  would  come. 
I have  prayed — prayed  and  believed — that  I 
wouldn’t  have  to  wait  three  years  more.  And  oh, 
Sophia — Sophia,  my  prayer  has  been  answered. 

Sophia  {grasping  her  arm).  Mis’  Randall!  It  was 
him?  He’s  here? 

Mrs.  R.  Ye.s,  Sophia.  He  came  last  night,  while  you 

50 


li'OR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


were  all  eating  supper.  I put  him  up  in  the  spare 
room.  He  is  there  now — sick ; so  sick  and  weak, 
but  free — free,  Sophia!  My  boy,  my  Tom,  is 
free  and  home  again,  here  with  me.  Just  in  time 
to  take  Phil’s  place,  now  that  he’s  going  away. 
Oh,  Sophia,  isn’t  it  wonderful? 

Sophia.  Wonderful?  Yes,  it  is.  Plow’d  he  get 
away  so  soon?  I thought  it  was  three  hull  years 
yet 

Mrs.  R.  He  was  pardoned,  as  I had  believed  he  would 
be.  But  nobody  knows  that  he  is  here,  nobody  but 
you  and  me,  Sophia,  and  you  mustn’t  tell  just  yet. 
Please  wait.  Just  till  to-night.  Then  I don’t 
care  who  knows.  I want  everybody  to  know. 
After  I have  told  Phil  and  Jessie,  and  he  has  seen 
them — then  let  the  whole  world  know.  He  is 
free — innocent,  even  if  the  shadow  of  that  awful 
prison,  those  terrible  three  years  still  clings  to 
him.  But  he  is  innocent — I know  it — I always 
knew  it — and  no  matter  what  anybody  else  thinks, 
I shall  always  believe  and  feel  sure  that  he  has 
had  to  suffer  for  what  somebody  else  did. 

Sophia.  Somebody  else.  But  who?  Do  you  sus- 
pect— do  you  think  — — 

Mrs.  R.  No.  That  may  never  be  known.  But  even 
if  it  isn’t,  I shall  believe  and  know  that  it  wasn’t 
my  Tom.  {Looks  out  door  c. ) Somebody’s 
coming.  Remember  what  I said,  Sophia.  Not  a 
word. 

Sophia.  All  right.  Mis’  Randall.  You  can  depend 
on  me.  {Looks  tozvard  door  c.)  Oh,  it’s  Heze- 
kiah  come  back.  I might  ’a’  known  he  wouldn’t 
be  fur  b’hind. 

{Enter  Hezekiah,  door  c.  from  r.  Mrs.  R.  is  up  c., 
Sophia  down  r.  c.) 

Hezekiah.  Afternoon,  Mis’  Randall.  Oh,  that  you, 
Sophi’? 

Sophia.  Of  course  it’s  me.  Who’d  y’  think  it  was? 

Hezekiah.  Wal,  I didn’t  know  but  it  might  be  little 
“Prairie  Flower.”  {Chuckles.) 

U.  Op'LL  L!B. 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Sophia.  You  think  that’s  cute,  don’t  y’?  Wal,  it 
ain’t.  It’s  irreverent,  that’s  what  it  is — makin’ 
fun  o’  sacred  things. 

He ZEKiAH.  “ Sacred  ! ” Huh ! Fail  t’  see  what’s 
sacred  about  ’n  Injun  gal,  ’n’  a dead  one ’t  that. 

Sophia.  “ Dead  one.”  ’N’  you  didn’t  know  but  I 
was  her ! Thanks  f ’r  the  compliment — but  I 
guess  I ain’t  a dead  one  yet.  Not  quite. 

{Going  up  c.,  pretending  to  he  greatly  injured.) 

Hezekiah.  Now,  Sophi’,  you  know  I didn’t  mean 
nothin’.  {Following  her.)  Can’t  you  take  a 
little  joke? 

Sophia.  Joke!  Wal,  I don’t  call  it  a joke,  ’f  you 
do — makin’  fun  o’  Prairie  Flower,  ’n’  me  too. 
Don’t  you  follow  me,  Hezekiah  Wilkins  ! I won’t 
speak  to  y’  ’f  y’  do.  {In  door  c.)  Good-after- 
noon, Mis’  Randall.  I’ll  remember  what  you  said. 
You  c’n  trust  me.  {About  to  go  out.) 

Hezekiah  {up  hy  her,  pleadingly) . Now,  Sophi’ — 
don’t  git  mad.  I didn’t  mean  it,  hope  t’  die  I 
didn’t.  Can’t  you  take  the  word  of  an  old  soldier? 

Sophia.  No,  I can’t — not  when  he’s  an  old  reprobate, 
too ! {Just  going  out,  she  turns,  sees  him  close  be- 
hind her;  motions  him  back  with  a commanding 
gesture. ) Stay ! I’m  done  with  you — forever ! 
Do  y’  hear  ? — forever ! 

{Exit  Sophia,  haughtily,  door  c.  to  l.  Hezekiah 
looks  after  her,  dejectedly.  Mrs.  R.  is  at  l.  c.) 

Hezekiah,  Oh,  Mis’  Randall,  do  y’  think  she  means 
it? 

Mrs.  R.  No,  of  course  I don’t.  She’s  just  pretend- 
ing, to  make  you  all  the  more  anxious.  She’ll 
come  around  all  right. 

Hezekiah  {coming  dozvn  to  c.).  Do  y’  think  so.  Mis’ 
Randall — honest  ? 

Mrs.  R.  Why,  of  course  I do.  I know  women  and 
I know — her.  You  are  taking  the  wrong  tactics, 
Hezekiah.  If  you  were  a little  more  hang-offish, 

52 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


SO  to  Speak,  you’d  vsoon  see  that  Fm  right.  You’re 
too  anxious,  and  she  likes  to  keep  you  dangling. 

Hezekiah.  Mebbe  that’s  so. 

Mrs.  R.  I’m  sure  it’s  so.  Just  you  try  leavin’  her 
alone  for  a while — pretend  there’s  somebody 
else 

Hezekiah.  But  they  ain’t.  {Goes  up  c.) 

Mrs.  R.  Well,  you  can  pretend  there  is,  can’t  you? 
**  All’s  fair  in  love  and  war,”  you  know,  and  hav- 
ing been  through  a war,  and  had  two  wives  al- 
ready, you  ought  to  know  a little  bit  about  love 
too,  it  seems  to  me. 

Hezekiah.  That’s  right.  Guess  I had.  I vtim,  I 
b’lieve  you’re  right,  Mis’  Randall.  ’Ll  be  gum- 
swizzled  ’f  I don’t  try  it,  too.  Much  obleeged  for 
th’  hint. 

(Oliver  runs  in  r.,  follozved  by  Ivy,  zvho  is  chasing 
him,  striking  at  him  zjuith  broom.  He  runs  rapidly 
up  and  into  Hezekiah,  zvho  turns  upon  him.) 

Oliver.  Oh,  ’xcuse  me,  Mr.  Wilkins.  Didn’t  see  y’. 

Hezekiah.  Wal,  you’d  better  look  where  y’re  goin’. 
(Ivy  aboiit  to  hit  Oliver  again  zjulth  broom,  hits 
Hezekiah  instead.)  Hey,  there,  what’s  all  this? 

Mrs.  R.  Ivy ! What  do  you  mean  by  such  actions  ? 
Stop  it  this  minute. 

Ivy.  I don’t  care.  He’s  the  boldest  thing!  Tried  t’ 
kiss  me. 

Oliver.  Tried  t’?  Did! 

Ivy.  Yes,  ’n’  I’ll  pay  you  back  for  it,  too. 

Oliver.  All  right.  I’m  ready.  Put  it  right  there. 
(Offering  his  pursed-up  lips.  She  slaps  him.) 
Ouch ! 

Hezekiah  (beizveen  them).  Here,  here,  that’ll  do. 
(Taking  Oliver  by  ear.)  Now  you  ’pologize, 
young  man. 

Oliver.  What  f’r?  Ain’t  done  nothin’  I’m  sorry  f’r. 

Hezekiah.  Stole  a kiss  fr’m  her,  didn’t  y’? 

Oliver.  Stole  it  nothin’.  Jest  borrowed  it.  Willin’ 
t’  put  it  back  right  where  I got  it  from. 

Ivy.  Well,  I guess  you  won’t. 

53 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


{Strikes  at  him.  Hezekiah  shields  him.) 

Hezekiah.  Talk  about  the  Germans  ’n’  th’  Alleys. 
Guess  we  got  war  right  here.  Eh,  Mis’  Randall? 

Mrs.  R.  I’m  astonished.  Ivy,  you  go  straight  back 
to  that  kitchen.  And  you’d  better  go  back  to  the 
store,  Oliver  Moon.  And  the  next  time  I order 
groceries  you  needn’t  bother  to  take  them  in  where 
she  i^  You  can  leave  them  right  here. 

Ivy.  Huh ! Needn’t  think  I’m  goin’  t’  lug  ’em  the 
rest  of  the  way. 

Mrs.  R.  That  will  do.  Do  as  I told  you. 

Ivy.  Yes,  ma’am.  {Going  to  door  r.)  But  I don’t 
care.  I know  a secret,  ’n’  if  you  ain’t  careful  I’ll 
tell.  So  there ! 

{Exits  R.,  impudently.) 

Hezekiah.  Guess  you’ve  kind  o’  sp’iled  her.  Mis’ 
Randall. 

Oliver.  Naw  ! She  ain’t  sp’iled.  Fresh  as  ever — ’n’ 
sweet,  too.  Yum-yum ! 

{Drawing  finger  across  lips.  Ivy  looks  in  r.  He  sees 
her;  she  makes  face  at  him.  He  laughs,  throws 
her  a kiss.) 

Hezekiah.  Hey,  there,  what’s  all  this? 

Mrs.  R.  Ivy ! What  did  I tell  you  ? 

(Ivy  disappears;  exit  Oliver,  laughing  mischievously, 
as  Hezekiah  good-naturedly  cuffs  him.  Heze- 
kiah pauses  at  door  c.) 

Hezekiah.  See?  ’T’s  jest  the  same,  young,  middle- 
aged  ’r  old.  Takes  two  t’  be  lovers  ’n’  two  t’  fight. 
Jest  th’  same  story,  right  down  sence  Adam  ’n’ 
Eve.  Guess  you’re  right  about  me  ’n’  Sophi’,  too. 
Mis’  Randall.  Much  obleeged  agin.  Goin’  t’  try 
your  p’rscription.  ’F  it  works  ’ll  let  y’  know. 
Hope  it  does.  Hope  it  does. 

Mrs.  R.  And  I think  it  will,  Hezekiah.  I’m  quite 
sure  it  will.  You  try  it. 

54 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Hezekiah.  All  right,  Mis’  Randall,  I will.  ’N’  if  at 
fust  I don’t  succeed,  I’ll  try  it  agin  ’n’  agin.  I’ll 
win  ’er  yet,  ’f  I have  t’  call  out  th’  hull  United 
States  iii’iitia  ’n’  the  G.  A.  R.  t’  do  it. 


xil,  door  c.  and  io  l.  Mrs.  R.,  in  door  c.,  pauses, 
looks  after  him  a momeni,  then  comes  part  way 
down  c.,  looks  about,  and  exit  l.  She  has  just 
disappeared  when  Jessie  and  Lucy  enter  door  c. 
from  L.  They  come  down.) 

Jessie.  I wish  you  didn’t  feel  that  way  about  Phil, 
Lucy.  I’m  sure  you  wrong  him. 

Lucy.  Perhaps  I do.  But  I can’t  help  it.  I have 
told  him  and  told  him,  times  enough,  that  I — that — 
oh,  you  know  what  I mean,  Jessie.  Surely  you 
don’t  think  I ought  to  go  back  on — on  Tom,  just 
because  of — of  what  happened? 

Jessie.  No,  of  course  I don’t.  How  could  you  think 
such  a thing  ? 

Lucy.  Oh,  I didn’t,  but — well,  you  take  Phil’s  part, 
and— and  sometimes  I think  everybody  has  gone 
back  on  Tom  except  his  mother  and  me.  I never 
believed  him  a — a thief,  and  I never  would.  No, 
not  if  all  the  world  told  me  so. 

Jessie.  Lucy!  You  know  I don’t  either.  No,  no,  it 
isn’t  that.  I wouldn’t  have  you  go  back  on  Tom. 
I admire  you  for  being  so  true  to  him.  But  I’m 
afraid  it’s  no  use.  There’s  your  father,  you  know, 
Tom’s  employer,  who  had  him  sent  to  prison,  and 
who  believes  him  guilty,  and  who  has  forbidden 
you  even  to  speak  of  Tom,  and — oh,  Lucy,  dear, 
you  see  how  hopeless  it  all  is. 

Lucy.  No,  it  is  not  hopeless.  When  Tom  comes 
back,  if  he  still  wants  me,  I want  him  too — in 
spite  of  my  father — in  spite  of  everything. 

Jessie.  Lucy,  do  you  mean  it  ? Could  you  do  that  ? 

Lucy.  Of  course  I could — and  will.  I should  hate 
and  despise  myself,  as  mucli  as  I should  expect 
him  to  despise  me — or  think  he  ought  to — if  I did 
otherwise.  But  we  won’t  talk  any  more  about  it 

55 


FOB  THE  OLD  FLAG 


now.  I’m  going  before  Phil  comes  back.  I don’t 
want  to  see  him  again. 

Jessie.  Please  don’t  feel  that  way,  Lucy.  He  is  go- 
ing away — across  the  ocean — to  fight  for  his  coun- 
try. You  can’t  let  him  go  feeling  that  you  are 
mad  at  him — that  you  are  not  his  friend.  Just 
think  what  that  would  mean  to  him. 

Lucy.  I am  his  friend.  Of  course  I am.  But — I 
want  him  to  know — to  understand 

{She  has  gone  up,  is  in  door  c.,  about  to  go  out;  looks 
off  R.,  draws  back.) 

Jessie.  What  is  it? 

Lucy.  It’s  Phil.  He’s  coming  back.  I’ll  have  to 
speak  to  him.  Perhaps  it  is  just  as  well.  I’ll  tell 
him  once  more  and  make  him  understand. 

Jessie.  But  kindly,  Lucy.  Be  careful.  Remem- 
ber — 

Lucy.  Oh,  yes.  I’ll  remember  that  he  is  a soldier — 
that  he  is  going  to  war,  and — I’ll  remember  some 
one  else  too — some  one  and — some — thing. 

Jessie.  Why,  Lucy — what  do  you  mean? 

Lucy.  Never  mind.  Please  go,  Jessie.  I want  to 
see  Phil  alone.  Please  do. 

Jessie.  Why,  yes,  of  course  I will,  if  you  want  me 
to.  Only — please — please  be  kind  to  him. 

(Lucy  nods  head,  smiling  faintly.  Exit  Jessie,  r. 
Lucy  comes  part  way  down  r.  Enter  Philip, 
door  c.  from  r.  Sees  her,  comes  down  c.) 

Philip.  Oh,  you’re  still  here?  I thought  you  had 
gone. 

Lucy.  I was  just  going.  I’ll  go  now. 

(Starts  np  c.  He  detains  her.) 

Philip.  Wait.  Just  a minute.  We  might  as  well 
have  it  out,  Lucy.  You  know  how  I feel,  but  you 
have  chosen  to  misunderstand  me,  to  say  things 
that  I am  sure  you  can’t  mean.  Don’t  you  think 
you  can  reconsider  ? 


56 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Lucy,  There’s  nothing  to  reconsider.  I meant  all 
that  I said.  Not  unkindly,  Phil,  please  believe 
that.  I don’t  want  you  to  go  away  feeling  that  I 
am  not  your  friend 

Philip.  Friend!  That  isn’t  enough.  You  cannot  be 
my  friend,  Lucy,  without  being  more  than  that  to 
me.  I want  your  word — your  promise — that  when 
I come  back  you  will  be  my  wife — that  I may  have 
that  joy  to  look  forward  to,  to  sustain  me,  in  all 
that  I may  have  to  face  over  there.  Think  what 
it  would  mean  to  me,  Lucy,  if  I could  know  that 
you  were  waiting  here  for  me — how  much  better 
I could  fight,  if  it  was  for  you  as  well  as  for — my 
country.  Lucy — say  you  will ! Oh,  if  you  knew 
all  it  means  to  me — if  you  could  only  know 

{They  are  down  c.,  she  at  his  r.  They  do  not  see  Tom, 
zvho,  having  bathed,  combed  his  hair,  etc.,  though 
zvearing  the  same  clothes,  looks  much  better  than 
at  his  first  appearance,  enters  l.  and  stands  there, 
looking  at  them.  He  is  still  very  pale,  agitated, 
and  seems  scarcely  able  to  control  himself,  but 
does  not  as  yet  reveal  his  presence.) 

Lucy.  And  what  do  you  think  it  means  to  me  ? And 
to  him — to  that  one,  your  own  brother,  whose 
rights  you  seem  to  forget? 

Philip.  Rights ! The  rights  of  a — convict ! 

Lucy.  Stop!  Don’t  you  dare  say  a word  against 
him  in  my  presence.  He  may  be  a “ convict,”  so 
far  as  wearing  prison  clothes  and  being  confined 
behind  iron  bars  is  concerned.  But  that  doesn’t 
make  him  a thief.  You  ought  to  know  that,  Philip 
Randall.  You  ought  to  know  that — and  you  do 
know  it ! 

Philip.  What  do  you  mean?  It  isn’t  the  first  time 
you’ve  made  that  insinuation,  and  now  you’ve  got 
to  explain.  Tell  me.  You’ve  got  to  tell  me. 

Lucy.  There’s  nothing  for  me  to  tell.  It  is  you  who 

should  tell,  who  ought  to  have  told — long  ago 

Philip^  Tell  what? 


57 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Lucy.  The — truth  ! 

Philip.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I — lied?  Do  you? 
Do  you  dare  say  that?  {He  seems  almost  to 
threaten  her,  advancing  toward  her,  and  as  she 
draws  away  from  him,  facing  l.,  she  sees  Tom, 
who  has  advanced,  with  livid  face,  his  eyes  star- 
ing, looking  faint  and  leaning  on  table  l.  c. 
Philip  has  his  hack  turned  toward  l.  and  does 
not  see  Tom.  Lucy  gives  a suppressed  scream, 
almost  overcome  as  she  sees  Tom  and  stares  at 
him,  at  first  seeming  not  to  believe  her  senses. 
Philip  pauses,  amazed  at  her  expression.)  Why, 
Lucy,  what  is  it?  What 

{He  turns;  sees  Tom,  becomes  speechless  with  sur- 
prise, in  zvhich  there  is  something  of  fear,  or  dis- 
may. Tom  does  not  speak,  but  looks  fixedly  at 
Philip  for  a moment,  then  turns  to  Lucy,  motion- 
ing her  to  leave  them.) 

Lucy.  Tom — I — I can’t  believe  it,  Tom.  Why, 
where — how 

Tom.  Please  go,  Lucy.  I want  to  speak  to  Phil 

Lucy.  But,  Tom,  aren’t  you  glad  to  see  me  ? Won’t 
you  speak  to  me  ? 

Tom.  Glad?  Oh,  Lucy,  if  you  only  knew  how  glad! 
Why,  it’s  like  seeing  the  sunshine  after  years  of 
darkness.  And  after  what  I just  heard  you  say, 
it’s  worth  all  the  world  to  see  you  again  and  to 
feel  that  you  still  believe  in  me.  But  I want  you 
to  go  now,  for  a little  while.  W^ill  you,  Lucy  ? 

Lucy.  Yes,  of  course,  Tom,  if  you  want  me  to.  But 
not  till  3'ou  have  shaken  hands  with  me.  I can’t 
wait  for  that. 

{They  ore  c.,  part  way  up;  Philip,  looking  almost 
overcome,  has  withdrawn  slightly  to  R.  Lucy 
holds  out  her  hand  to  Tom,  looking  straight  into 
his  eyes,  zvith  a tender,  pleading  expression.  He 
falters  an  instant,  still  shozving  his  zveakness,  then, 
almost  in  tears,  grasps  her  hand.) 

Tom.  Lucy  I 


58 


FOB  TEE  OLD  FLAG 


{He  holds  her  hand  a moment,  then  releases  it.  She 
smiles  at  him  encouragingly  and  exits  by  door  c. 
to  L.  He  stands  looking  after  her,  then  turns  and, 
with  a change  of  expression,  showing  mingled 
anger,  bitterness  and  determination,  looks  straight 
at  Philip,  who  tries  boldly  to  meet  his  gaze  but 
is  not  able  wholly  to  do  so.) 

Philip  {down  r.).  Well,  Tom,  so  you  are  home? 
You  don’t  wonder  Pm  a bit — a — surprised,  do 
you?  Isn’t  it  rather  sudden,  or — unexpected? 

Tom  {coming  down  c.).  I suppose  it  is,  and  none 
too  welcome  to  you,  either,  if  the  truth  were 
known.  I don’t  flatter  myself  you  are  quite  so 
glad  to  see  me  as  Lucy  Garrett  appeared  to  be. 

Philip.  Why,  of — of  course  I am.  Only,  you  see, 
I had  no  idea — we  weren’t  expecting  you  just  yet, 
and — naturally  it  upsets  me  a little.  You  see,  I 
thought 

Tom.  I know.  You  thought  I was  safe  behind  those 
stone  walls  and  those  iron  bars,  where  you  were 
the  means  of  placing  me,  and  where  you’d  like  to 
have  me  stay.  But  you  thought  wrong,  for  I’m 
not  there  now.  I was  there  three  years,  though. 
Wasn’t  that  long  enough  for  an  innocent  man — 
one  who  was  there  instead  of  another,  who  ought 
to  have  been  in  his  place? 

(Philip  seems  to  avoid  his  brother,  though  showing 
that  he  is  trying  to  disguise  his  real  feelings  and 
to  appear  at  ease.  Tom,  hozvever,  is  relentless  in 
his  gaze  and  his  manner,  so  that  Philip  cannot 
altogether  conceal  his  perturbation.) 

Philip.  I don’t  know  what  you  mean. 

Tom.  I think  you  do.  If  not,  I can  soon  tell  you. 
It  was  your  testimony  that  sent  me  to  that  prison, 
wasn’t  it? 

Philip.  Well,  if  it  was,  it  was  because  it  was  forced 
out  of  me.  I was  summoned  as  a witness.  I had 
to  tell  what  I knew. 


59 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Tom.  Yes — what  you  ‘‘knew” — and  a good  deal 
more  that  you  didn’t  know. 

Philip.  What  do  you  mean  by  that?  Do  you  mean 
to  insinuate 

Tom.  I don’t  mean  to  “ insinuate  ” at  all.  I mean  to 
speak  my  mind  and  to  say  what  I think — yes,  what 
1 know  now,  though  I didn’t  then.  (Philip 
makes  a gesture  of  impatience,  walks  up,  os  if  to 
go.  Tom  steps  in  his  way,  makes  him  remain.) 
No,  you  can’t  go.  You’ve  got  to  listen  to  what  I 
have  to  say — what  I’ve  been  weeks  and  months 
waiting  and  longing  to  have  an  opportunity  to  say 
to  you.  There’s  no  use  going  over  it  all,  except 
for  a few  things  that  may  refresh  your  memory. 

Philip.  Oh,  it  isn’t  necessary.  I haven’t  forgotten. 

Tom.  So  much  the  better.  But  perhaps  I can  tell 
you  a thing  or  two  you  don’t  know.  You  don’t 
know,  for  one  thing,  that  during  the  three  years  I 
have  been  shut  up  there,  suffering  for  something 
that  I never  did,  I have  thought  and  thought  and 
thought,  till  things  have  become  clear.  You  know 
I went  back  to  the  bank  that  night,  about  nine 
o’clock,  because  I found  that  I had  in  my  pocket  a 
letter  containing  a check  for  a large  sum  from  a 
depositor,  which  I meant  to  put  in  the  safe.  So 
I went  back  to  the  bank.  I had  a perfect  right 
to  go  in  there,  after  hours.  I had  a key,  and  often 
went  in,  to  work  at  the  books,  when  I was  behind, 
or  to  look  after  something.  But  that  night  I 
found  the  safe  open  and  a lot  of  money  gone — 
more  than  a thousand  dollars.  Naturally  I was 
excited.  I hardly  knew  what  to  do,  but  I suppose 
I did  the  worst  thing  possible — closed  the  safe  and 
went  out,  thinking  I’d  wait  till  morning  before  I 
said  anything  about  it.  I knew  afterward  that  I 
did  a foolish  thing,  something  that  I couldn’t  ex- 
plain— especially  when  they  found  those  bills, 
amounting  to  two  hundred  dollars,  hidden  in  my 
room.  And  then  when  you — so  reluctantly ! — 
“ let  it  out  ” that  you  were  passing  the  bank  and 
saw  me  come  out,  and  I had  no  real  explanation 
6o 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


a^s  Wj-  vhy  I didn’t  report  the  rob])ery  at  once,  that 
night  except  that  I was  so  frightened  and  excited 
that  I couldn’t  think  and  didn’t  know  what  I was 
doing,  why — it  all  went  against  me  and  I was  pro- 
nounced a — thief ! 

Philip.  X/ell,  I don’t  see  as  you  have  offered  any- 
thing, as  yet,  even  to  suggest  that  the  verdict 
wasn’t  a just  one. 

Tom.  But  I’m  not  through.  Listen.  Look — look 
here — look  me  straight  in  the  face 

(Philip  has  tried  to  ignore  him,  but  now  is  compelled 
to  face  him,  which  he  does,  at  first  boldly.) 

Philip.  Well, — what? 

Tom.  Can  you  look  me  in  the  face  and  tell  me — 
swear  to  me — that  you  know  of  no  reason  why  that 
verdict  was  a wrong  one? — that  you  honestly  be- 
lieve I took  that  money? 

Philip.  Oh,  well,  even  if  I didn't,  I couldn’t  help 
what  happened.  I simply  answered  questions — 
told  what  I saw — and  it  went  against  you.  It 
wasn’t  my  fault.  I tried  to  spare  you — to  keep 
from  telling,  but — they  made  me. 

Tom.  Oh,  yes,  I remember.  You  managed  to  act 
very  much  as  if  you  were  testifying  unwillingly, 
and  I was  too  crushed,  too  dazed,  then,  to  see 
through  you,  to  see  what  you  were  up  to  and  to 
understand  what  I understand  now.  You  were 
sacrificing  me  to  save  yourself. 

Philip.  What!  You  dare!  You  dare  accuse  me 

Tom.  Yes,  to  accuse  you  to  your  face  and  to  tell 
others.  It  has  all  come  to  me,  I am  as  sure  as  I 
am  that  I was  three  years  in  prison,  that  I was 
there  innocent  of  any  crime,  and  that  I am  now 
here  talking  to  you,  that  you  were  the  one  who 
had  been  in  the  bank — that  it  was  you  who  opened 
the  safe  and  took  that  money — you,  Philip  Ran- 
dall, you ! 

Philip.  You’re  crazy.  You  must  be,  to  imagine  such 
a yarn  and  to  think  that  anybody  would  believe  it. 

6i 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


'J'oM.  They  shall  believe  it ! I’ll  make  them ! And 
ril  have  help  in  proving  that  what  I say  is  true. 

rniLip  (doubly  alarmed).  Help?  Why,  what  do 
you  mean?  Who — who  will — help  you? 

Tom.  You  will — you!  You,  yourself. 

Philip  (relieved).  PIo!  Now  I know  you’re  crazy. 
How  could  I help  you?  My  story  would  be  the 
same. 

Tom.  No,  it  would  be  an  entirely  different  story  this 
time.  You  wouldn’t  have  it  quite  so  much  your 
way,  for  I would  be  a different  man  and  I would 
have  a few  things  to  say — a few  questions  to  sug- 
gest. Why  were  you  near  the  bank  that  night? 
Where  did  you  get  all  the  money  you  had  after 
that — to  go  to  New  York  and  to  go  with  the  set 
you  went  with?  Hal  You  see  I have  found  out 
a few  things,  even  shut  up  there  behind  prison 
walls.  I have  been  out  of  there  two  months,  and 
I haven’t  been  idle. 

Philip.  Out — two  months!  Did  you — escape? 

Tom.  No.  It  isn’t  easy  to  escape  from  Dannemora, 
and  I wasn’t  fool  enough  even  to  attempt  such  a 
thing.  No,  I didn’t  escape,  I was  pardoned.  Par- 
doned two  months  ago,  and  I have  spent  the  time 
to  good  advantage,  even  if  at  last  I have  come 
home  sick  and  penniless.  But  I have  come  home 
with  a purpose,  and  nothing  shall  turn  me  from  it. 
Do  you  know  Avhat  that  purpose  is? 

Philip.  Why,  no,  Tom,  unless — I suppose  it  is  to 
live  down  the  past  and  make  a new  start 

Tom.  You’re  nowhere  near  guessing  it.  My  purpose 
is  different  from  that.  It’s  to  expose  the  guilty 
man,  the  one  who  sent  me  to  prison,  and  to  make 
him  suffer  as  I have.  Yes — no  matter  who  that 
man  is — even  if  he  is  my — own — brother! 

Philip.  Pooh ! You’re  just  talking.  You  have  no 
proofs — you  can’t  have. 

Tom  (fixing  Philip  with  his  accusing  gaze).  I have 
my  will  and  you  have  your  conscience — even  if 
there  was  nothing  more.  ( Philip  cowers,  in  spite 
of  himself.)  Why,  you  show  it — you  show  it 
62 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


now ! It’s  written  in  your  face — all  the  proof 
that  is  necessary.  You  couldn’t  deny  it — you 
couldn’t ! 

Philip  {irying  to  recover  himself).  Pshaw!  No- 
body would  pay  any  attention  to  you. 

Tom.  Oh,  yes,  they  will.  I’ll  make  them.  I’ll  make 
them  pay  attention,  and  I’ll  make  you  tell  the 
truth,  in  spite  of  yourself. 

{There  is  a pause.  Philip  has  walked  part  way  tip  c., 
zvhere  he  stands  as  if  in  deep  thought,  his  head 
bowed.  Tom  looks  at  him,  waiting  for  him  to 
speak.  Finally  Philip  lifts  his  head,  comes 
down,  facing  Tom.) 

Philip.  Very  well.  Do  it.  Tell  it  all — your  sus- 
picions, what  you  think  and  what  you  know.  But 
think,  first,  what  it  would  mean.  Think  of  our 
mother — of  our  country — of  this  uniform. 

Tom.  Yes,  the  uniform  which  you  disgrace  by  wear- 
ing. Oh,  I noticed  it,  but  it  means  nothing  to  me 
when  it  is  worn  by  a man  like  you. 

Philip.  Can  you  say  that?  Can  you  say  that  it 
means  nothing,  if  I am  willing  to  go  to  France,  to 
try  and  prove  that  I am  a man,  not  a coward,  and 
that  I will  die,  if  need  be,  to  do  it?  I mean  it, 
Tom.  Won’t  you  give  me  a chance — for  the  sake 
of  Mother — of  Uncle  Sam — for  the  flag?  I want 
to  make  good,  and  you  can  help  me.  Won’t  you 
do  it  ? It’s  up  to  you. 

Tom.  Pretty  late,  seems  to  me,  after  all  I’ve  been 
through  because  of  you.  What  about  that?  Do 
you  mean  you  own  up  to  it — that  you  will  con- 
fess? 

Philip.  I mean  that  I want  to  keep  my  uniform,  to 
go  to  France — to  fight  and  do  my  bit.  Thinlc 
what  it  would  mean  if  I had  to  give  up  now.  It 
would  kill  Mother — I guess  it  would  kill  me  too, 
Tom.  I should  never  live  to  bear  it.  After  all, 
Fm  your  brother,  even  if  I have  done  wrong 

Tom.  “ Brother ! ” There  was  a time  when  you  for- 

63 


FOB  THE  OLD  FLAG 


got  that,  I guess.  It’s  a nice  kind  of  brother 
}'ou’ve  been  to  me.  And  now — now,  after  I’ve 
spent  three  years  in  prison,  for  what  you  did; 
given  up  my  good  name  and  got  it  all  to  live  down, 
if  I ever  can,  you  ask  me  to  keep  silent  about  it, 
to  let  them  still  think  I am  a thief.  Don’t  you 
think  it’s  a good  deal  to  ask  ? 

Philip.  Yes,  Tom,  I do.  But  can  you  go?  Can 
you  wear  this  uniform  in  my  place  and  go  and  fight 
for  Uncle  Sam — for  France — for  Liberty? 

Tom  {cogitating,  sadly).  No.  N-no — I can’t  go. 

I’m  not  strong  enough.  I’m  a wreck.  But  it  was 
you  made  me  so — don’t  forget  that. 

Philip.  I don’t  forget,  Tom — I never  will  forget.  I 
promise  you  that.  I swear  that  I will  prove  it  to 
you,  and  that  I will  do  the  right  thing.  Only  let 
me  go  now,  and  some  day  you  will  not  be  sorry. 
Will  you  do  it,  Tom — will  you? 

(Philip  is  near  him,  speaking  with  eager  entreaty. 
Tom  falters,  seeming  to  ponder.  The  sacrifice  is 
almost  too  much  for  him,  but  after  a pause  he 
looks  at  Philip,  then  turns  his  gaze  to  the  flag. 
Finally  raises  his  head  bravely,  with  one  hand  on 
flag,  looks  straight  at  Philip.) 

Tom.  Yes.  I’ll  do  it.  Go.  Prove  your  manhood — 
fight  for  yourself  and  for  me.  I’ll  try  to  do  my 
bit  too,  here  at  home.  I will  keep  still  and  send 
you  in  my  place.  But  see  that  you  wear  that  uni- 
form like  a soldier  and  a man — or — I’ll  have  my 
revenge  yet. 

(Philip  seems  scarcely  able  to  believe  what  he  hears. 
Is  overcome;  almost  breaks  down.  Holds  out  his 
hand. ) 

Ppiilip.  Tom — my  brother — you  are  more  of  a hero 
than  I can  ever  be,  even  on  the  battle-field.  And 
I promise  you  what  you  are  doing  shall  not  be  in 
vain.  {As  Tom  refuses  to  take  his  hand.)  Wonk 
you  wish  me  luck,  Tom? 

64 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAO 


Tom.  I wish  you  luck,  yes--luck  and  success.  But— - 
don’t  say  any  more.  I can’t  stand  it.  Just  go- 
go ! 

Philip.  But  I can  trust  you— you  promise? 

Tom.  Yes.  I promise.  Now  go.  {He  turns  away 
from  Philip.  Tom  is  down  l.  Philip  looks 
at  him  a moment,  as  if  about  to  speak  again,  but 
instead  goes  r.  c.,  takes  his  hat  from  table,  goes  up 
and  exits  at  door  c.  to  R.,  without  looking  back. 
Tom  stands  a moment  in  silence,  his  head  bowed; 
then  straightens  up,  with  a brave  look,  his  face 
brightened  by  lofty  courage  and  determination. 
Shakes  head  slowly,  as  he  glances  l.,  as  if  thinking 
“Mother!  ” then  takes  up  corner  of  flag,  clasps  it 
in  both  hands,  looks  down  at  it  reverently.)  Yes, 
I can  do  it.  I will.  For  you,  Old  Flag — for 
you ! 


CURTAIN 


ACT  III 


SCENE. — Same  as  before,  an  evening  in  the  next 
February.  The  doors  are  closed,  window  cur- 
tains drawn,  etc.  Mrs.  R.  sits  by  table,!..,  knitting 
on  soldier's  sweater.  Up  'R.  c.  are  seated  Ivy  and 
Oliver,  busily  engaged  playing  checkers.  There 
is  a pause  after  rise  of  curtain,  Ivy  and  Oliver 
intently  studying  the  board  and  Mrs.  R.  earnestly 
working.  Then  Ivy  exclaims  joyfully,  as  she 
finally  makes  a move. 

Ivy.  There!  Now  I got  y’.  Move!  Go  on,  slow- 
poke ! Don’t  y’  see  it’s  your  move  ? 

Oliver  {calmly,  with  assurance).  Why,  so ’tis — sure 
enough.  All  right.  There — and  there — and  there  1 
{Jumps  one  of  his  kings  ” several  times,  taking 
Ivy’s  men  and  zvinning  game.)  Now  y’  satisfied? 

Ivy.  Wha — what  y’  doin’?  I didn’t  see  that. 

Oliver.  No,  o’  course  y’  didn’t;  but  I did.  Beat  y’ 
agin.  See  ? 

Ivy.  Yes,  I see ’t  you  cheated. 

Oliver.  Huh ! Leave  it  to  a girl  t’  squeal  when  she’s 
beat.  ’D  ruther  play  with  a feller,  any  time. 

Ivy.  Oh,  y’  would?  Well,  then,  play  with  ’em,  Mr. 
Smarty.  I don’t  care. 

{Jumps  up,  upsetting  board  and  spilling  checkers  on 
floor.) 

Mrs,  R.  {looking  up).  Dear  me,  children,  if  you 
can’t  play  a game  of  checkers  without  ending  up 
in  a quarrel  every  time,  I guess  you’d  better  not 
play  any  more.  I’m  surprised  at  you. 

Ivy.  Well,  I don’t  care.  Mis’  Randall,  he  cheated.  I 
didn’t  have  t’  move  that  way,  ’n’  he  made  me  do  it. 


FOB  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Oliver.  Made  y’ ! ’F  you  Vv^as  silly  enough  T move 
jest  where  I wanted  y’  to,  that  was  your  fault. 
Tain’t  my  fault  ’f  you  don’t  know  enough  to  look 
out  for  y’r  own  interest.  That’s  where  the  game 
comes  in. 

Ivy.  Oh,  ’tis,  is  it?  I want  t’  know 

Oliver.  Sure  ’tis.  That’s  “ st-st-rattlegem  ” — like 
they  do  in  the  war. 

Ivy.  My ! Ain’t  you  smart  ? ’T’s  a wonder  you 
don’t  go  ’n’  tell  ’em  how  t’  lick  the  Kaiser. 

Oliver.  Goin’  t’,  pretty  soon.  Soon’s  I git  old 
enough. 

Ivy.  Yes.  You  ’n’  your  “ goin’  t’s.”  Huh ! ’T’s 
easy  enough  t’  talk. 

Mrs.  R.  There  now,  that  will  do,  you  two.  Ivy,  did 
you  light  the  fire  in  the  front  room,  as  I told 
you  to? 

Ivy.  Yes’m.  Quite  a while  ago.  ’T  must  be  gett’n’ 
real  warm  in  there  by  this  time. 

Mrs.  R.  Well,  you  pick  up  those  checkers  ’n’  things, 
and  then  go  and  see. 

Oliver  {picking  up  checkers).  I’ll  pick  ’em  up.  Mis’ 
Randall. 

Mrs.  R.  Thank  you,  Oliver.  That’s  the  way  I like 
to  see  you — acting  the  gentleman. 

Ivy  {zvho  has  gone  to  door  l.,  snickering).  Who — 
him? 

Mrs.  R.  Yes — him.  I wish  you’d  take  pattern  after 
him  a little 

Ivy.  ’N’  try  t’  be  a gentleman  ” ? 

Mrs.  R.  No,  of  course  not.  A “ lady,”  which  I’m 
afraid  you  never  will  be,  if  you  don’t  start  in 
pretty  soon.  Now  you  go  and  see  to  that  fire,  and 
have  it  a good  one,  ’cause  Lucy  Garrett  is  coming 
to  spend  the  night  with  Jessie,  and  they  may  want 
to  have  some  music.  Probably  Tom  will  play  on 
his  violin  and  Lucy  will  sing.  I hope  so,  ’t  any 
rate. 

Ivy.  Yes,  ’n’  I might  favor  with  a song  too,  ’f  you 
urged  me  enough. 

Oliver.  Ho  ! that  would  be  a treat,  that  would, 

W 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAQ 


{She  makes  a face  at  him  and  exits  L.  He  has  placed 
checker-hoard,  etc.,  on  table  or  stand,  up  R.  Nozv 
is  c. ) 

Mrs.  R.  You  can  stay  and  hear  them,  if  you  wish, 
Oliver.  You  like  music,  I know. 

Oliver.  You  jest  bet  I do.  Mis’  Randall.  Your  Tom 
certainly  can  play  that  fiddle,  and  as  for  Lucy 
Garrett,  she  sings  like  a reg’lar  op’ry. 

Mrs.  R.  Well,  she  ought  to  sing  well.  She  took 
lessons  in  New  York  at  two  dollars  a lesson,  when 
she  stayed  there  all  that  time  with  her  mother’s 
folks.  She  plays  on  the  piano  well,  too,  but  of 
course,  we  only  having  an  organ,  she  can’t  do  so 
much  when  she’s  here.  Her  father  bought  her  a 
beautiful  upright.  She  always  says  she  could 
make  her  own  living  giving  music  lessons,  if  it  was 
necessary.  But  I guess  it  never  will  be,  and  her 
father  with  all  his  money. 

Oliver.  No,  I don’t  s’pose  it  will,  unless  he  should 
turn  her  out,  ’r  somethin’. 

Mrs.  R.  Wh)^,  Oliver,  what  do  you  mean? 

Oliver.  Nothin’.  Only  I hear  the  men  talking,  down 
’t  the  store  sometimes,  ’n’  they  say  ’f  she  don’t 
give  up  your  Tom,  her  father’s  goin’ t’  throw  her 
out.  He  don’t  know  she  ever  sees  him.  I guess 
she  wouldn’t  be  over  here  t’  stay  with  Jessie  all 
night  t’-night  ’f  her  father  wa’n’t  in  New  York 
f’r  a week.  If  he  finds  it  out  when  he  comes 
home  there’ll  be — the  dickens  t’  pay. 

Mrs.  R.  Oliver ! I believe  you’re  a regular  gossip. 
Goodness,  I didn’t  know  men,  and  boys  too,  like 
you,  talked  that  way  about  folks. 

Oliver.  Oh,  y’ didn’t?  Well,  y’ ought  t’ work  in  our 
store  a few  nights,  ’n’  I guess  you’d  change  y’r 
mind.  Gossip  ? Huh ! MTy,  some  o’  them  men  > 
could  give  Sophia  Ash  and  all  her  spirits  ’n’  things 
lessons.  {Going  l.)  Guess  I’ll  go  in  and  sec  ’f 
I can  help  Ivy,  Mis’  Randall. 

Mrs.  R.  Yes,  I guess  you’d  better.  And  see  that  you 
don’t  repeat  any  of  that  talk.  It’s  terrible.  I 
68 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


wouldn’t  want  Tom  to  hear  it  for  anything.  It’s 
hard  enough  for  him  as  it  is,  with  all  he  has  to 
bear. 

Oliver.  Oh,  I won’t  say  anything.  But  I guess  it 
wouldn’t  be  much  news  t’  him,  ’f  I did. 

{Exit  Oliver,  l.  Mrs.  R.,  who  has  kept  on  knitting, 
now  wipes  eyes  with  end  of  sweater,  almost  weep- 
ing. There  is  a slight  pause,  then  Tom  enters, 
door  c.  He  is  well  zvrapped  up  in  heavy  over- 
coat, with  cap  pidled  down,  etc.,  and  there  is  snow 
on  his  head  and  shoulders.  He  takes  off  cap, 
shaking  it,  then  brushes  snow  from  coat.  Mrs.  R. 
does  not  notice  him  until  he  speaks.) 

Tom.  Why,  Mother,  what’s  the  matter?  Not  crying 
again?  Now,  you  know  what  you  promised  me. 

Mrs.  R.  Oh,  Tom,  is  that  you?  I didn’t  hear  you 
come  in.  Is  it  snowing? 

Tom.  Yes.  It  started  just  as  I left  the  post-office. 
It’s  already  getting  quite  deep.  Looks  like  we’re 
in  for  a real  snow-storm. 

{Takes  off  hat  and  coat,  throwing  them  on  chair.) 

Mrs.  R.  {hesitating,  as  if  fearfid  to  ask).  Wasn’t 
there  any — letter — Tom? 

Tom  {going  to  her,  standing  by  her,  putting  hand  on 
her  shoulder  tenderly).  No,  dear.  But  don’t 
worry.  It  takes  a long  time  for  a letter  to  come 
from  France,  you  know 

Mrs.  R.  I should  say  it  did.  We  haven’t  heard  a 
word  from  Phil  for  over  two  months. 

Tom.  I know,  but  that’s  no  proof  he  hasn’t  written. 
Just  think  how  uncertain  the  mails  must  be  now, 
and — there,  there,  don’t  you  fret.  “ No  news  is 
good  news,”  you  know. 

Mrs.  R.  Perhaps — sometimes.  But  not  these  times. 
With  this  terrible  war  going  on,  and  my  boy — my 
handsome,  brave  boy  over  there  fighting — oh.  I’m 

afraid  he  is  sick,  or — or Oh,  Tom,  I can’t 

bear  it,  I can’t! 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Tom  (his  arm  about  her).  Mother!  Is  that  the  way 
to  be  brave?  You  know  we  promised  each  other. 
You  said  if  I would  be  brave  and  make  the  best 
of — of  things — you  would,  too. 

(He  goes  up  r.,  os  if  unable  to  control  himself.  She 
rises,  goes  toward  him,  laying  her  knitting  on 
table.) 

Mrs.  R.  Tom!  Forgive  me.  I forgot.  It  was  very 
selfish  of  me.  You  are  fighting  a harder  battle 
than  any  soldier  over  there  in  that  awful  war. 
You  are  a hero  too 

Tom.  Mother — don’t!  We  weren’t  to  speak  of  it, 
you  know.  {Draws  her  down  c.) 

Mrs.  R.  But  I must  speak  of  it.  I must  tell  you  that 
I don’t  mean  to  be  selfish,  to  think  only  of  him 
and  his  danger  and  heroism,  when  you  are  here 
facing  what  you  have  to  face.  Oh,  if  we  could 
only  find  out  the  truth — if  we  could  prove  your 
innocence 

Tom.  Mother! 

Mrs.  R.  For  you  are  innocent,  Tom,  I always  knew 
it.  Nothing  could  ever  make  me  believe  you  took 
that  money. 

Tom  {now  close  to  her,  c).  But  somebody  took  it. 
Mother,  and  somebody  had  to  be  blamed  for  it. 
Appearances  were  against  me  and  I have  had  to 
pay  the  penalty.  It  is  all  over  now,  so  let  u? 
not  take  it  up  again. 

Mrs.  R.  Over  I Over — and  you  still  thought  a thief 
and  shunned  by  people  who  should  know  better, 
who  do  know  better,  only  they  are  too  uncharitable 
to  say  so.  Tom,  you  never  told  me  what  you 
did — what  you  found  out — those  weeks  after  you 
left  the — after  you  were  freed — before  you  came 
home.  Did  you  never  find  out  anything — who 
•else  had  been  to  the  bank,  or  near  it,  that  night, 
so  that  you  had  something  to  work  on,  to  prove 
your  own  innocence?  That  first  night  when  you 
came  home  you  let  it  out  that  you  had  suspicions, 
70 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


that  you  had  found  evidence — had  proofs — then 
all  of  a sudden  you  kept  still,  you  wouldn’t  tell 
me  any  more,  and  you  never  tried  to  find  out. 
What  was  the  reason,  Tom?  Why  was  it? 

Tom.  Mother,  dear,  there  is  nothing  to  tell.  At  first 
1 was  dazed — excited — I didn’t  know  what  I 
thought  or  said,  and  I imagined  many  things. 
Afterward  I saw  that  it  was  no  use,  that  every- 
thing was  against  me,  and  I gave  it  up.  If  it 
hadn’t  been  for  you,  and  Jessie,  and — and  her, 
Heaven  bless  her,  I — I guess  I would  have  given 
up. 

Mrs.  R.  Tom!  She  is  coming  here  to-night — to  stay 
all  night  with  Jessie.  I expect  her  any  minute. 

Tom.  Who?  You  mean — Lucy  is? 

Mrs.  R.  Yes.  Her  father’s  gone  to  New  York  for  a 
week,  and  she’s  coming  over  to  spend  the  night 
with  Jessie.  I suppose  she  hadn’t  ought  to — 
probably  it  isn’t  right,  and  him  telling  her  she 
mustn’t — well,  anyhow,  she’s  coming.  Jessie  said 
she  said  she  just  would,  anyway,  and  if  her 
father  didn’t  like  it  she  didn’t  know  as  she  cared 
much.  I guess  she’s  about  made  up  her  mind  to 
take  things  into  her  own  hands. 

Tom.  Lucy’s  a brick.  Mother.  There  isn’t  another 
girl  in  the  world  like  her.  But  I wouldn’t  let  her 
do  that — go  against  her  father  and — and  take  up 
with  me,  so  long  as  things  are  as  they  are  now. 
It  wouldn’t  be  right.  I should  be  a coward  to  let 
her,  and  I won’t. 

Mrs.  R.  I know,  Tom.  You’re  too  good  and  noble. 
But  it’s  hard.  On,  if  you  could  prove  your  inno- 
cence. Isn’t  there  any  hope,  Tom — none? 

Tom.  No,  Mother,  I’m  afraid  not.  I’ve  got  to  bear 
it.  I promised,  and 

Mrs.  R.  Promised?  Why,  what  do  you  mean? — 
“ promised  ” who  ? 

Tom.  Why,  nobody,  I — I meant  I promised  myself 
I’d  never  let  Lucy  Garrett  sacrifice  herself  for  me, 
even  if  she  was  willing  to.  I hope  I should  never 
stoop  to  that. 


FOE  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Mks.  R.  Oh ! Well,  Lucy’d  do  it,  I’m  sure  she  would. 
She’s  that  kind  of  girl,  and  she  believes  in  you 
too,  Tom — the  same  as  I do. 

Tom  {they  are  at  c. ; he  puts  an  arm  about  her,  ten- 
derly). Yes,  and  that’s  everything  to  me.  Mother 
— you  and  Lucy.  I can  stand  it,  so  long  as  I have 
that  much.  But,  oh,  it’s  hard  not  to  be  able  to 
enlist,  to  go  with  the  boys  “ Over  There.”  They 
need  me.  Mother — they  need  every  man  who’s  able 
to  go. 

Mrs.  R.  But  Phil’s  there.  We  need  you  here.  I 
can’t  give  you  both  up — yet.  I will,  gladly — I 
mean  willingly — when  it  comes  to  it.  Even 
that — for  my  country.  But  I hope  it  won’t  be 
yet — not  just  yet. 

(Ivy  thrusts  head  in  l.,  calling  out  suddenly.) 

Ivy.  Say,  Mis’  Randall,  c’n  Oliver  ’n’  me  have  some 
apples  ? 

Mrs.  R.  Yes,  of  course.  But  land,  can’t  you  wait? 
We’re  going  to  have  apples  and  cider  and  cake, 
by  and  by. 

Ivy.  We’d  ruther  have  some  apples  now.  Oliver 
would. 

Mrs.  R.  Oh,  well,  then — of  course. 

Ivy  {who  has  entered — hurryinq  to  r.).  All  right. 
I’ll  git  some. 

{Exit  R.,  as  Jessie  enters  same  door.  She  comes  to 
R.  c. ; Mrs.  R.  goes  to  table  l.  ; Tom  is  c.) 

Jessie.  Oh,  here  you  are.  I didn’t  know  you  were 
back  from  the  post-office,  Tom.  Wasn’t  there  any 
letter? 

Tom.  No. 

Mrs.  R.  No,  Jessie,  not  a word.  Isn’t  it  strange? 
I’m  so  afraid  something  has  happened  to  Phil. 
We  ought  to  have  had  a letter  before  this. 

Jessie.  Well,  it  won’t  do  any  good  to  worry,  that’s 
certain.  {Goes  up,  lifts  curtain,  looks  out.) 

72 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Seems  to  me  it's  about  time  Lucy  came.  My,  it’s 
snowng  real  hard. 

Mrs.  R.  Yes,  so  Tom  says.  Do  you  think  she  can 
come  over  all  right,  alone  ? 

Jessie.  Why,  of  course.  It  isn’t  far,  and  she’s  not 
afraid.  But  why  don’t  you  go  after  her,  Tom? 

Tom.  Do  you  think  I’d — better? 

{He  shows  eagerness,  hut  some  hesitation.) 

Jessie.  Sure.  Don’t  you.  Mother  ? 

Mrs.  R.  Why,  yes,  of  course.  I don’t  see  why  not. 
You  might  meet  her. 

Tom  {taking  hat  and  overcoat,  putting  them  on).  All 
right,  I will.  I guess  there  won’t  be  any  crime 
in  that.  {Up  at  door  c.)  Besides,  it’s  dark. 
Nobody  will  see  us.  But  I don’t  care  if  they  do — 
the  whole  world! 

{Exit  hurriedly,  door  c.  Mrs.  R.  is  again  seated  L. 
of  table,  with  knitting;  Jessie  up  by  door  c.) 

Mrs.  R.  Oh,  Jessie,  isn’t  it  terrible?  He  loves  Lucy 
and  she  loves  him.  But  v/ith  this  terrible  thing 
hanging  over  him — and  he  vows  and  declares  he’d 
never  let  Lucy  go  against  her  father  for  him.  He 
says  he  couldn’t  be  such  a coward.  He’s  a brave 
boy,  Tom  is — a hero. 

Jessie  {coming  down  to  l.  c.).  Yes,  I suppose  he  is. 
But  I guess  there’s  such  a thing  as  overdoing  it. 
Maybe  he’s  a little  too  set  on  being  a hero. 

Mrs.  R.  Why,  Jessie,  what  do  you  mean? 

Jessie.  Oh,  I mean  that  sometimes  I wish  Tom  had 
more  spunk,  and  was  a little  more  determined  to 
stick  up  for  himself  and  not  mind  so  much  what 
people  say.  Maybe  if  he’d  act  more  like  he  didn’t 
care  so  much,  and  face  people  as  if  he  had  some 
pride,  they’d  begin  to  think  more  of  him. 

Mrs.  R.  Why,  Jessie,  how  you  talk ! I’m  sur- 
prised — 

IJessie.  Well,  I can’t  help  it.  Sometimes  I think  Tom 
has  a reason — that  he  knows  much  more  than  he 

73 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


lets  on,  and  is  shielding  somebody.  I must  say,  it 
doesn’t  look  natural  to  me,  the  way  he  changed  all 
of  a sudden,  and  the  way  he  acts 

Mrs.  R.  {rising,  laying  knitting  on  table).  Jessie — 
what  do  you  mean  — “shielding”  somebody? 
How'  could  he  ? — who — wdio  could  it  be  ? 

Jessie.  Have  you  never  wondered — thought  that  per- 
haps there  was  something  — more  than  w^e 
know ? 

Mrs.  R.  Of  course  I have.  He  hinted  as  much,  and 

then — all  of  a sudden Oh,  I don’t  know 

what  to  think.  There’s  some  mystery.  Alto- 
gether, with  thinking  of  Phil — ’w-ay  over  there — 
perhaps  w'ounded,  or  dead — and  then  my  other 
boy,  here,  despised  and  suffering — it  seems  as  if 
it  is  more  than  I can  bear. 

{Stamping  of  feet  heard  outside  door  c.) 

Jessie.  There,  there.  Mother,  dear,  don't.  Some- 
body’s coming.  Perhaps  it’s 

{Goes  lip,  opens  door,  admits  Lucy  Garrett  and  Tom, 
both  with  snow  on  shoulders.  Lucy  wears  cloak, 
furs,  etc.  They  enter,  Lucy  coming  down,  cor- 
dially greeted  by  Mrs.  R.  and  Jessie.  Tom  has 
her  small  hand-bag,  which  he  sets  down,  staying 
somewhat  back.) 

Lucy.  Well,  here  I am. 

Mrs.  R.  Yes,  in  a regular  snow-storm. 

Lucy.  Oh,  I don’t  mind.  I just  love  it.  Tom  met 
me.  It  was  real  kind  of  him  to  come  after  me. 

Jessie.  Yes,  considerably  after — you  had  started. 
{They  laugh.)  But  he  had  to  be  sent,  you  know. 

Lucy.  Now^,  you’re  spoiling  it 

Tom  {coming  down,  somezvhat  embarrassed).  You 
know  better  than  that,  don’t  you,  Lucy?  You 
believe,  anyhow^  that  I wanted  to  come,  only 

Lucy.  Yes,  Tom,  of  course  I do.  Don’t  you  let  this 
little  sister  of  yours  tease  you. 

74 


FOB  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Mrs.  R.  ril  take  your  things,  Lucy,  and  put  them 
up  in  your  room. 

JiiSSiE.  No,  I’ll  lake  them.  You’re  to  sleep  in  the 
room  next  to  mine,  Lucy — you  know,  with  the 
door  between.  {Taking  Lucy’s  cloak,  etc.) 

Lucy.  Fine.  But,  here,  1 must  have  my  knitting. 
Can’t  lose  any  time  on  that  sweater,  you  know. 
It’s  in  that  bag,  Tom. 

(Tom  presents  hag;  she  takes  out  partly  finished 
szveater,  with  needles,  wool,  etc.) 

Jessie.  Yes,  and  I must  get  mine.  We’re  all  doing 
it,  you  know. 

Mrs.  R.  How  many  does  this  make,  Lucy  ? 

Lucy.  Seven.  I w’sh  it  were  twenty-seven. 

Mrs.  R.  My!  I think  you’ve  done  wonders.  And 
me,  with  only  the  second. 

Jessie  (l.).  And  look  at  poor  little  me,  still  working 
on  my  first  pair  of  socks.  Oh,  I’m  some  knit- 
ter— nit ! 

{Exit,  L.  Tom  is  down  c. ; Lucy  l.  c.  ; Mrs.  R.,  l. 
of  table.) 

Tom.  I’ll  go  and  put  up  my  hat  and  overcoat 
They’re  kind  of  wet.  {Goings.)  Excuse  me? 

Lucy.  Certainly.  Only  come  back — soon. 

Tom.  Sure ! Don’t  have  this  treat  every  day,  and  I 
don’t  want  to  miss  any  of  it. 

{He  smiles  and  exits  r.  Mrs.  R.  looks  surprised, 
Lucy  pleased.) 

Mrs.  R.  Well,  that’s  about  the  first  he’s  chirked  up 
that  way  since — I don’t  know  when.  He  seems 
quite  like  himself.  Oh,  Lucy,  it’s  you—all  you — 

with  him.  I mean,  if  only Oh,  do  you 

think  there’s  any  hope — that  it  will  ever  be  cleared 
up,  and — all? 

Lucy.  Yes,  Mrs.  Randall,  I believe  it  will.  I mean 
it  shall  be.  I’ve  made  up  my  mind  to  stick  by 
Tom — well,  I guess  you  knew  I had  done  that 

75 


FOR  TEE  OLD  FLAG 


long  ago — but  I mean  I’m  going  to  help  clear  it 
up.  I don’t  intend  to  let  anybody — even  my  own 
father — hold  me  back  any  longer.  If  Tom  won’t 
tell  what  he  knows,  and  do  what  he  can  do — why, 
somebody  will  have  to  make  him.  There  is  some 
reason  for  his  silence.  I know  it.  More  than 
once  he  has  let  it  out,  and  it’s  time  we  found  out 
what  that  reason  is. 

Mrs.  R.  Why,  Lucy,  you  talk  just  like  Jessie.  That’s 
about  what  she  was  saying  just  before  you  came. 
Have  you  and  she  been  putting  your  heads  to- 
gether ? 

Lucy.  Yes,  Mrs.  Randall,  we  have — our  heads  and 
our  hearts.  And  our  whole  souls  are  in  it,  too. 
And  we  want  your  help — your  faith — your 
prayers. 

(Mrs.  R.  does  not  speak,  hut  takes  one  of  Lucy’s 
hands  in  both  of  hers,  holding  it  tenderly,  with 
a smile  of  assent  and  encouragement.  Enter 
Oliver,  l.) 

Oliver.  ’Xcuse  me.  I was (5^^j>Lucy.)  Oh, 

good-even’n’.  Miss  Garrett. 

Lucy.  Good-evening,  Oliver.  How  are  you? 

Oliver.  Fair  t’  middling,  thank  y’.  I was  lookin’  for 
Ivy.  She  said  she’d  get  some  apples.  Strikes 
me  mebbe  she’s  eat’n’  ’em,  too.  Takes  her  long 
enough. 

Mrs.  R.  I guess  you’d  better  go  and  see  about  it, 
Oliver.  I think  you’ll  find  her  in  the  kitchen. 

Oliver  {going  r.).  All  right — thanks — guess  I will. 
D’  know’s  she’ll  give  me  any,  after  all,  she’s  s’ 
mad  ’cause  I beat  her  playin’  checkers.  Guess 
mebbe  I c’n  coax  her  up,  though.  ’S  all  right,  ’f 
y’  know  how  t’  handle  girls. 

Lucy.  So  you’ve  found  that  out,  have  you,  Mr. 
Moon? 

Oliver.  Sure.  Long  ago.  {Indoors.)  Say,  Miss 
Garrett,  you  goin’ t’  sing? 

Lucy.  I don’t  know.  Perhaps.  Why  ? 

76 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Oliver.  ’Cause  Td  like  t’  hang  around  ’n’  hear  it. 
Hope  it’s  one  o’  them  op’ry  pieces — all  wobbly. 

Lucy.  Wobbly? 

Oliver.  Yes, — trilly-like {Makes  atlempi  at 

trill,  running  np  to  a high  note  in  a falsetto  tone.) 
So ! — see  ? 

Lucy  {convulsed).  Yes,  I see — and  hear,  too.  But 
I’m  afraid — really.  I’m  afraid  I couldn’t  do  it 
like  that. 

Mrs.  R.  Well,  I should  hope  not.  You’d  better  go 
and  find  out  about  those  apples,  Oliver.  I’m 
afraid  Ivy  ’ll  have  them  all  eaten  up. 

Oliver.  Yes,  I reckon  I had.  But  I’ll  be  back  when 
y’  begin  y’r  wobblin’.  Miss  Garrett.  Ho-o — oh — 
o-o-oh ! 

{Putting  hand  on  chest  and  flinging  out  a high  note, 
as  he  exits  r.) 

Mrs.  R.  He  is  irrepressible,  that  boy.  Between  him 
and  Ivy — well,  I guess  you  can  imagine. 

{Enter  Jessie,  l.,  with  partly  knitted  sock.) 

Jessie.  What’s  all  this  I hear?  Mercy,  I thought  a 
wild  Injun  was  let  loose. 

Mrs.  R.  Why,  it  was  Oliver  Moon,  trying  to  sing. 

Lucy.  Or  trying  to  show  me  how  to  do  it.  Is  that 
your  knitting,  Jessie? 

Jessie.  Well,  it’s  my — whatever-y’-call-it.  I don’t 
know  as  I’d  call  it  “ knitting.”  I pity  the  poor 
soldier  that  ever  tries  to  wear  this  pair  of  socks. 
If  he  hasn’t  corns  already,  I guess  he  soon  will 
have.  I hope  it’s  one  of  those  old  Germans. 

Mrs.  R.  Oh,  Jessie,  I don’t  believe  it’s  so  bad  as  all 
that. 

Lucy.  No,  of  course  it  isn’t.  {Examining  Jessie’s 
work.)  Why,  you’re  getting  along  all  right.  Just 
keep  at  it. 

Jessie.  Oh,  I’ll  keep  at  it  all  right.  Got  to  do  my 
share  toward  winning  the  war,  and  if  these  socks 
exterminate  one  German,  that’ll  be  so  much. 

77 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


(They  all  sit,  knitting — Mrs.  R.  at  l.  of  table,  as  be- 
fore; Lucy  r.  of  table  and  Jessie  r.  c.  Enter 
Tom,  r.) 

Tom.  Well,  well,  but  you’re  an  industrious  lot.  Guess 
I ought  to  have  some  knitting,  too,  or  something 
like  that. 

Lucy.  Well,  why  not?  It  wouldn’t  hurt  a man  to 
knit,  any  more  than  a woman  to  do  some  of  the 
things  she  does. 

Jessie.  Why,  of  course  not.  I could  drive  an  ox- 
team  or  hoe  a potato  field  ten  times  better’n  I 
can  knit  these  socks.  I’ll  bet. 

Mrs.  R.  The  idea!  I guess  you  couldn’t.  I don’t 
approve  of  the  way  v.'Omen  are  taking  up  the 
men’s  work  these  days.  It  seems  all  wrong  to  me. 

Jessie.  Yes,  you’re  just  an  old-fashioned  woman. 
Mother,  dear.  Not  up  to  the  times. 

Lucy.  Then  I hope  she  never  is. 

Tom.  Me,  too.  I wouldn’t  have  Mother  change  one 
iota  for  the  world.  Eh,  Mother-o’-mine  ? 

(He  has  gone  around  hack  of  her,  leans  over  her  chair, 
with  arms  about  her.) 

Mrs.  R.  (looking  up  at  him,  tenderly).  Well,  so  long 
as  you  are  suited,  Tom — you  and  a few  others — I 
guess  I ought  to  be  happy.  But  you  do  spoil 
me  so. 

Tom.  Pshaw ! It  couldn’t  be  done. 

(Jessie  and  Lucy  smile  affectionately  at  Mrs.  R.,  who 
now  rises.) 

Mrs.  R.  Well,  I’m  not  so  sure  about  that.  (Cross- 
ing to  R.)  I’m  going  in  the  kitchen  now.  I 
want  to  see  what  Ivy  and  Oliver  are  up  to.  Be- 
sides, I have  a few  things  to  see  to. 

Lucy.  Now,  Mrs.  Randall,  don’t  go  and  fuss. 

Mrs.  R.  No,  of  course  I won’t.  Just  some  cakes  and 
cider  and  a few  nuts  and  apples,  that’s  all. 

(Exit,  R.  Jessie  rises,  goes  to  r.) 

78 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Jessie.  Guess  I’ll  go  and  see  if  I can  help.  You 
two  excuse  me?  {Smiling  knowingly.) 

Lucy.  Why,  yes — of  course 

Tom.  Oh,  sure — take  your  time 

{These  two  sentences  are  spoken  together.  Jessie 
smiles  and  exits  r.  Lucy  is  still  seated  R.  of  table, 
Tqm  is  standing  other  side  of  table.) 

Lucy.  I — haven’t  seen  much  of  you  lately,  Tom. 
Where  have  you  been  keeping  yourself? 

Tom.  Oh — around.  Here  at  home,  most  of  the 

time.  It  seems  the  best  place  for  me,  somehow. 

Lucy.  I can’t  say  that  I agree  with  you. 

Tom.  You — don’t? 

Lucy.  No.  You  are  simply  helping  people  to  take 
you  at  their  own  estimate.  Excuse  me,  Tom,  I 
don’t  mean  to  hurt  your  feelings.  You  know 
that.  But  I do  think  you  make  a mistake. 

Tom.  Maybe  I do.  It’s  mighty  hard,  though.  Why, 
I had  even  begun  to  think  you  were  going  back 
on  me,  Lucy. 

Lucy.  You  know  better  than  that.  It’s  been  hard  for 
me,  too.  You  don’t  know  all  I have  to  contend 
with.  But  never  mind  that.  Sit  down,  Tom.  I 
want  to  talk  to  you.  {He  sits;  she  leans  on  table, 
looking  across  at  him  earnestly.)  I’ve  been  wait- 
ing for  this  opportunity. 

Tom.  To  give  me  a talking  to  ? 

Lucy.  Well,  yes — if  you  want  to  put  it  that  way. 
Anyhow,  to  say  a few  things  that  have  been  on 
my  mind  for  a long  time.  First:  do  you  mean 
to  keep  it  up? 

Tom.  What? — keep  what — up? 

Lucy.  You  know — bearing  all  the  shame  and  misery 
that  you  have  to  bear,  for  something  somebody 
else  did.  That’s  what  you’re  doing. 

Toat.  I believe  you  have  said  that  before,  or  hinted 
as  much.  You  haven’t  much  to  go  on,  though, 
have  you? 

Lucy  {ignoring  what  he  says).  And  you  think  it’s 

79 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


your  duty?  Is  it  for  Phil,  or  for  your  mother — 
chiefly  ? {He  rises,  amazed. ) 

Tom.  Lucy  ! What  do  you  mean  ? What  are  you — 
driving  at  ? 

Lucy  {quietly).  Driving  square  up  to  the  right 
hitching-post,  Tom  Randall,  and  you  know  it. 
Oh,  Fve  understood  the  whole  thing  right  along — 
ever  since  last  summer.  I suspected  it  before 
Phil  went  away.  I was  sure  of  it  soon  after.  It’s 
noble  of  you,  Tom.  You’re  a real  hero — a true 
patriot — and  I’d  like  to  give  you  the  Cross  of 
Honor  and  all  the  other  decorations  and  things. 
But  I think  it’s  rather  too  much.  Phil  is  away 
over  there  now,  where  it  doesn’t  matter  so  much 
to  him.  You  are  here,  with  it  to  bear.  Don’t  you 
think,  if  you  can  prove  your  innocence — even  if 
you  have  to  implicate  him — it’s  your  privilege 
now — your  duty  to  yourself 

Tom.  No — I can’t 

Lucy.  And  to — me! — Tom? 

Tom.  Oh,  Lucy,  don’t  put  it  that  way.  I — I can  bear 
it  for  myself,  but  don’t  make  it  harder  for  me. 
I promised — faithfully,  on  my  word  of  honor — 
and  I pride  myself  I still  have  a “ word  of  honor  ” 
that  stands  for  something.  I couldn’t  go  back 
on  it.  No — not  even  for  you,  Lucy — I couldn’t! 

Lucy.  I see.  And  I suppose  I shouldn’t  ask  it  of 
you.  But  I can  do  my  share — bear  my  share — 
too.  I can  stand  by  you  and  with  you,  and  show 
everybody  that  I believe  in  you,  no  matter  what 
anybody  else  says  or  thinks.  That’s  what  I want 
to  do,  Tom. 

{They  are  standing  c.  Tom  looks  at  her,  almost  nn- 
comprehendingly,  almost  overcome  as  her  meaning 
dawns  upon  him.) 

Tom.  Would  you  do  it,  Lucy?  Would  you  become — 
my  wife — now — as  things  are — and  still  let  me 
keep  my  promise  ? Could  you  do  that ? 

Lucy.  Yes,  Tom,  yes.  Gladly.  I want  to  do  it 

8q 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Tom.  But  your  father — he 

Lucy.  I don’t  care.  Not  for  him  nor  the  whole  world. 
It’s  you,  Tom — you  v/ho  need  me  and  whom  I 
want.  Isn’t  that  enough  ? 

Tom  (wonderingly — looking  at  her  with  great  tender- 
ness), Enough?  It’s  everything — it’s  wonder- 
ful! You’re  the  most  wonderful,  the  bravest, 
truest  girl  in  all  the  world.  {He  takes  her  in  his 
arms;  she  nestles  against  him — there  is  a pause, 
then  suddenly  he  puts  her  from  him  with  determi- 
nation.) But  it  can’t  be — it  mustn’t.  It  wouldn’t 
be  right.  No — no! 

Lucy.  Tom!  It  must,  it  shall!  In  spite  of  every- 
thing. {Puts  hand  on  his  arm.) 

Tom  {drawing  away  from  her,  sadly,  hut  firmly).  No. 
I would  be  a coward.  I couldn’t  let  you  give  up 
so  much  for  me.  Some  time — it  may  come  right — 
then — but  not  yet — not  now 

{He  turns  up  l.  c.  ; she  goes  to  him,  pleadingly.) 

Lucy.  Tom! 

Tom.  No — don’t,  Lucy — please ! Don’t  make  it 
harder  for  me.  I must  bear  it — alone. 

{He  exits  l.  She  stands  l.  c.,  hy  table,  sadly,  almost 
breaking  down.  There  is  a pause,  then  a stamp- 
ing of  feet  outside  and  knocking  on  door  c.  Lucy 
looks  that  way,  hut  does  not  go  to  door;  takes  up 
her  knitting,  goes  L.  Enter  Mrs.  R.,  hurriedly,  r.) 

Mrs.  R.  Oh,  you  here  alone,  Lucy?  {Going  up  to 
door  c.)  I guess  that’s  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wilkins.  I 
asked  them  to  come  over  a little  while,  too. 

Lucy.  Did  you?  Seems  it’s  a regular  party. 

Mrs.  R.  Oh,  no;  but  seeing  they  are  just  back  from 
their  wedding  trip,  and  all,  you  know 

{The  knocking  on  door  is  repeated.  Lucy  crosses, 
exits  R.,  just  as  Mrs.  R.  opens  door,  admitting 
Hezekiah  and  Sophia.  They  are  well  bundled 
up,  with  snow  on  heads  and  shoulders.  They  come 

8i 


FOE  THE  OLD  FLAG 


in  hurriedly,  shaking  themselves,  etc.  Mrs.  Ri 
glances  out,  then  quickly  closes  door.) 

Sophia.  Uit!  We’re  almost  froze. 

I\Irs.  R.  Aly,  it’s  a regular  storm,  isn’t  it? 

Sophia.  Storm?  I should  say  so.  It’s  blowing  and 
drifting  something  terrible. 

Hezekiah.  Twin  sister  to  a blizzard,  I call  it.  S’ 
stiif  I d’  know’s  I’ll  ever  git  thawed  out. 

Sophia.  Well,  you  would  come.  I told  him  it 
wa’n’t  fit.  Mis’  Randall,  but  he’s  so  afraid  he’ll 
miss  something.  I guess  he’d  insisted  on  cornin’ 
’f  it  ’d  been  a blizzard  ’n’  a cyclone  all  in  one. 
That’s  about  what  ’tis,  too. 

Hezekiah.  Listen  t’  that.  Me  ’nsisted!  Gosh,  can 
y’  beat  that?  You  couldn’t  ’a’  kep’  her  t’  home 
with  a chain  ’n’  padlock. 

Mrs.  R.  Well,  I’m  real  glad  you  got  here,  anyway. 
Come  in  the  front  room.  I guess  you’ll  find  it 
real  warm  in  there.  Ivy  lit  the  fire  in  the  wood- 
stove  some  time  ago. 

Sophia.  Oh,  it’s  plenty  warm  enough  here.  Mis’ 
Randall.  Ain’t  it,  Hezekiah? 

Hezekiah.  Sure — plenty — for  me. 

{They  have  removed  things,  which  Mrs.  R.  takes. 
Sophia  retains  immense  cretonne  knitting-hag, 
which  she  has  had  under  shazvl  or  cloak.) 

Mrs.  R.  Well,  all  right  then,  sit  right  down  here  and 
make  yourselves  as  comfortable  as  you  can  for 
the  present.  I’ll  take  these  things  out  by  the 
kitchen  stove,  where  they’ll  get  nice  and  dry. 

{Exit  at  R.,  with  things.  Sophia  sits  r.  of  table  with 
knitting;  Hezekiah  is  c.) 

Sophia.  Be  y’  feelin’  all  right,  Hezekiah?  Sure  you 
didn’t  git  a chill? 

Hezekiah.  Chill?  No.  Be’n  out  in  worse  weather 
’n  this  plenty  o’  times.  It’s  you  I’m  worried  about, 
dearie. 


82 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


(Puis  arm  about  her,  as  if  about  to  kiss  her;  she  draws 
away,  repulsing  him.) 

Sophia.  Hezekiah  Wilkins,  b’have  y’rself  ! What  if 
some  of  ’em ’d  come  in  and  see  y’  ? 

Hezekiah.  What’d  I care?  Ain’t  we  bride  ’n’ 
groom  ? Guess  we  got  a right  to  love  a little 

Sophia.  Bride  ’n’  groom?  Land,  we  be’n  married 
over  a month.  ’Bout  time  you  had  a little  sense, 
accordin’  t’  my  way  o’  thinkin’.  ’T  your  age,  too ! 

Hezekiah.  What’s  age  got  t’  do  with  it?  Guess 
after  wait’n’  all  them  years  t’  git  y’,  y’  ain’t  goin’ 
t’  keep  me  from  showin’  how  much  I love  y’,  now 
’t  you’re  mine. 

Sophia  {as  he  continues  attempting  to  fondle  her). 
Well,  y’  don’t  have  to  do  it  b’fore  folks.  {He  is 
more  persistent — she  rises,  pushing  him  back.) 
F’r  the  land’s  sake,  leave  me  be!  I never  saw 
sech  a man. 

{Enter  Mrs.  R.  at  r.) 

Hezekiah.  ’Tain’t  right.  Is  it,  Mis’  Randall? 

Mrs.  R.  What  isn’t,  Mr.  Wilkins? 

Hezekiah.  Why,  f’r  Sophi’  t’ 

Sophia.  Don’t  you  pay  no  attention  t’  him,  Mis’ 
Randall.  He’s  too  silly  for  anything — wantin’  t’ 
make  love  all  the  time,  at  his  age.  No  matter 
where  we  are,  either — always  actin’  like  we  was 
a young  married  couple. 

Hezekiah.  Well,  what’d  I marry  y’  f’r,  ’f  ’twa’n’t  t’ 
show  my  devotion  ? 

SoppiiA.  Devotion  fiddlesticks!  {She  is  again 
seated,  opens  bag,  takes  out  sock  partly  knitted — 
holds  it  out  to  Hezekiah.)  Here’s  your  knittin’. 
Take  it  and  keep  busy,  f’r  goodness’  sake. 

Mrs.  R.  Oh,  have  you  learned  to  knit  too,  Hezekiah  ? 

Hezekiah.  She  made  me.  Makes  me  tired.  Knit- 
t’n’s  f’r  women.  {Refuses  to  take  work.)  I 
don’t  want  it. 

Sophia.  Hezekiah  Wilkins,  you  take  that  knittin’. 
Ain’t  you  willin’  t’  do  that  much  f’r  y’r  country? 

83 


FOR  THE  OLD  Ft  AO 


Hezektah.  Me?  Gosh  a’  fish-hooks,  ’n’  me  a vet’- 
ran  what  fit  f’r  the  Union.  ’S  if  I hadn’t  done 
more  ’n  knit  a darned  old  pair  o’  socks ! 

!Mrs.  R.  Well,  I guess  that’s  so,  Hezekiah.  It  does 
seem  as  if  you  might  be  excused.  Don’t  you 
think  so,  Sophia? 

Sophia.  No,  I don’t.  It  won’t  hurt  him  a bit.  I’ve 
dug  p’tatoes  ’n’  split  kindlin’-wood  lots  o’  times, 
’ll’  I guess  that  ain’t  woman’s  work,  any  more 
knittin’s  a man’s. 

{Again  oifering  ivork  to  Hezekiah,  who  now  grabs 
if  spite  fully.) 

Hezekiah.  Oh,  well,  then,  give  it  here ! {Looking 
at  it.)  Pretty  lookin’  kind  o’  thing  that  is,  ain’t 
it?  Git  more  stitches  in  m’  side  th’n  I put  in  the 
blamed  old  stockin’.  I thought  we  come  over 
here  t’  have  a pleasant  evenin’.  Wanted  t’  tell 
’em  about  our  wedd’n’  trip. 

Sophia.  Oh,  I guess  they’ve  heard  all  they  want  to 
about  that.  Ain’t  y’.  Mis’  Randall? 

Mrs.  R.  It’s  nothing  but  what  I could  stand  hearing 
over  again,  Sophia.  It  must  have  been  quite  a 
trip,  to  Philadelphia  and  all.  They  say  that’s  a 
wonderful  city. 

Hezekiah.  I should  say  ’tis.  Talk  about  “ slow,” — 
wal,  ’f  Philadelphy’s  what  they  call  slow,  spare  me 
fr’m  where  they’re  s’posed  t’  be  rapid.  Wft 
saw 

Sophia  {interrupting  him).  That’s  where  the  Liberty 
Bell  is,  y’  know.  We  saw  it — crack  ’n’  all 

Hezekiah.  ’Course  we  did.  Didn’t  s’pose  they  was 
goin’  t’  hide  the  crack  the  days  we  was  there, 
did  y’  ? 

Sophia.  And  the  very  table  they  set  at  t’  sign  the 
Declaration  o’  Independence — and  the  house — the 
very  window — where  Betsy  Ross  set  t’  make  the 
first  American  flag. 

Hezekiah.  ’N’  Benjamin  Franklin’s  grave,  ’n’-- 

Sophia.  Yes,  ’n’  their  City  Hall’s  got  a tower  higher’n 
a church  steeple,  with  Billy  Penn  standin’  on 
84 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


top  of  it.  We  went  'most  to  the  top,  hi’ — what  d’ 
think,  Mis’  Randall  ? Hezekiah  got  s’  dizzy,  goin* 
up  s’  far  in  that  elevator,  ’t  they  had  t’  let  us  out 
on  about  the  seventy-eighth  floor 

Hezekiah.  Huh!  ’Twa’n’t  no  sech  thing — ’twa’n’t 
inore’n  the  twenty-third 

Sophia.  Wal,  anyway,  it  was  wonderful,  and  we 
certainly  did  have  a fine  time.  Everybuddy  seemed 
t’  know  we  was  bride  ’n’  groom,  though,  fr’m  the 
way  Hezekiah  acted.  I got  so  ashamed,  I thought 
I’d  sink. 

Mrs.  R.  I don’t  see  what  you  cared — so  long  as  you 
had  a good  time. 

Sophia.  But  I hate  t’  see  a man  act  so  silly.  His 
third  time,  too.  {Watches  Hezekiah.)  See 
here,  if  you  can’t  knit  any  better’n  that  you  might 
as  well  stop.  The  war’ll  be  over  before  you  get 
that  one  sock  done. 

Hezekiah.  Wal,  I guess  they’ll  be  some  one-footed 
ones  left  that’ll  be  glad  t’  git  it.  {Rises.)  You 
make  me  nervous.  How  can  I knit,  with  you 
watchin’  every  minute? 

Mrs.  R.  Why  don’t  you  go  in  the  other  room, 
Hezekiah?  Tom’s  in  there.  You  can  tell  him 
about  your  trip. 

Hezekiah  L.).  All  right,  guess  I will.  Mebbe 

it’ll  cheer  him  up. 

Mrs.  R.  Yes,  maybe  it  would. 

Sophia.  Well,  you  go,  ’cause  I’ve  got  somethin’  I 
want  t’  tell  Mis’  Randall,  anyway.  Mebbe  we 
won’t  get  another  chance  t’  be  alone  this  evenin’. 

Hezekiah.  Huh  ! ’Mother  one  of  them  “ messages,” 
I s’pose.  I’m  jealous  o’  them  spirits — how  d’  I 
know  but  what  some  of  ’em’s  male  ones  ? Hey  ? 

{Exit,  R.,  chuckling.) 

Sophia.  Don’t  you  pay  any  attention  t’  him.  Mis’ 
Randall.  He’s  always  talkin’  like  that.  Says  I 
ought  t’^  give  it  all  up,  now  ’t  I’m  his.  But  I 
can’t,  Mis’  Randall — I can’t.  It’s  them  that  won’t 
give  me  up — Prairie  Flower. 

85 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Mrs.  R.  So  you  still  hear  from  her,  do  you? 

Sophia  {mysteriously).  Oh,  yes — often.  Not  s* 
often ’s  I did,  though.  It  has  t’  be  something  very 
important  now,  it  seems.  'N’  ’tis,  this  time.  It’s 
for  you.  Mis’  Randall.  It  come  t’  me  last  night, 
as  plain  as  day. 

Mrs.  R.  Dear  me,  I was  in  hopes  there  wouldn’t  be 
any  more  for  me.  It  sort  of  makes  me  nervous. 

Sophia.  Why,  it  ought  t’  lift  you  up.  It  does  me. 
I feel  the  honor  and  the  responsibility  placed  upon 
me.  {Impressively.)  Mis’  Randall,  it  all  came 
to  me  last  night.  Sort  of  symbolic-like,  but  plain 
as  could  be.  I saw  a battle-field,  then — a 
wounded  soldier,  in  a hospital,  I think  it  was. 
He  seemed  to  be  trying  to  tell  me  something — 
something  he  wanted  me  to  tell  somebody.  And 
I thought  it  was  you.  Then  he  got  s’  weak  he 
couldn’t  say  it — and — and  then 

Mrs.  R.  {with  an  anxiety  which  she  cannot  conceal). 
What,  Sophia?  What  else?  Of  course,  I don’t 
believe  in  it — but — I can’t  help  being  inter- 
ested — 

Sophia.  Wal,  I wouldn’t  want  t’  alarm  you,  for  any- 
thing; but  for  a time  it  seemed  as  if  it  was  the  last 
word  he  ever  spoke. 

Mrs.  R.  You  don’t  mean  he  was — that  he — died? 

vSoPHiA.  For  a time  I did.  But  it  went  further — I 
saw  a young  man  in  uniform  set  out  on  a long 
journey.  It  was  as  if  he  went  on  the  water — came 
back  to  this  country — as  if  he  was  coming — 
here 

Mrs.  R.  {rising,  in  unconcealed  excitement).  Oh, 
Sophia,  he  is  coming  home — my  boy — my  Phil ! 
Was  it  Phil?  Do  you  think  he  is  coming? 

Sophia.  Wal,  it  was  all  sort  o’  misty,  as  if  it  wa’n’t 
intended  I should  know  exactly.  But  that’s  what 
I saw. 

Mrs.  R.  I thought  you  said  it  was  all  “ as  plain  as 
day.”  I guess  it  wasn’t.  Seems  to  me  it  was 
nothing  but  a dream,  the  kind  I have  myself  a 
good  (leal. 


86 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Sophia.  You  can  take  it  for  what  it*s  worth.  I 
ain't  sayin'  what  that  is.  But  it  was  plain  enough — 
that  is,  that  it  was  a message,  and,  t’  my  mind, 
that  it  was  intended  for  you,  even  if  it  was  kind 
o’  faint  at  the  end.  That’s  the  way  it  is.  Some- 
times I come  out  of  ’em  before  I get  it  all. 

Mrs.  R.  Yes,  I guess  you  do.  Well,  I’m  much 
obliged,  anyway,  seeing  you  thought  you  ought  to 
tell  me.  But  I can’t  say  I put  much  faith  in  it. 
{Going  l.)  Won’t  you  come  in  where  your  hus- 
band is,  Mrs.  Wilkins? 

Sophia  {rising).  Yes,  I s’pose  I’d  better,  ’r  he’ll  be 
out  here  after  me.  Land,  I don’t  see  how  I ever 
consented  t’  have  him,  after  s’  long.  I can’t 
hardly  sense  it  yet,  ’t  I’m  a married  woman — ’n’ 
t’  nothin’  but  an  old  relic  of  the  Civil  War. 

Mrs.  R.  Yes,  it  does  seem  kind  of  queer,  I will  admit. 
Most  men  would  have  lost  hope  long  ago.  But  I 
guess  he  knew  you  intended  to  have  him  some 
time,  all  along. 

Sophia.  Mis’  Randall,  how  you  talk ! The  very  idee ! 
Why,  I never  had  no  more  intention  of  b’comin’ 
Mis’  Hezekiah  Wilkins  ’n  I have  of — of — wal, 
of — wal,  of  goin’ t’  France  in  an  air- ship.  But  I 
had  t’  take  him  t’  get  red  of  him.  Now  ’t  I’m 
his  wife  I can  at  least  be  the  boss  and  keep  him 
in  his  place.  It’s  easier  t’  manage  a husband  ’n 
’tis  a man  what  wants  t’  be. 

Mrs.  R.  Well,  anyway,  he’s  got  you,  at  last. 

Sophia.  I’ve  got  him,  I guess  you  mean.  ’N’  now ’t 
I have,  I declare  I don’t  know  what  t’  do  with 
him.  I s’pose  I’ll  have  t’  make  the  best  of  it. 

Mrs.  R.  It’s  a wonder  Prairie  Flower  didn’t  warn 
you,  if  it  wasn’t  just  the  best  thing  for  you  to  do. 

Sophia.  Mebbe  she  would’ve,  ’f  I’d  listened.  But  I 
turned  a deef  ear,  ’n’  now  I’ve  got  t’  pay  the 
penalty. 

(Hezekiah  sticks  head  in  door  l.) 

Hezekiah.  Say,  when’s  my  little  lovey-dovey  coming 
in  with  her  little  piggy- vriggy  ? 


FOB  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Sophia,'  In  a minute.  Go  back  in  there!  (Hez- 
EKiAH  withdraws. ) Did  you  ever  hear  sech  sick- 
ishness — at  his  age,  too  ? It's  like  livin'  on  whipped 
cream  and  choc’late  drops  f'r  a month  till  y'r  dy- 
ing f’r  pickles  'n'  chow-chow.  {Going  l.)  But 
I s'pose  I’ll  have  to  go  in,  'r  he’ll  never  give  me  a 
minute’s  peace.  (As  she  goes  out.)  No,  I don't 
see  how  I ever  consented  t’  take  him — I cer- 
tainly don't. 

(Exit,  L.  Mrs.  R.  stands  a moment,  looking  after  her, 
with  an  amused  smile.  Then  enter  Lucy  and 
Jessie,  r.) 

Jessie.  Where  are  the  bride  and  groom,  Mother? 

Mrs.  R.  They  went  in  the  front  room.  Tom's  in 
there,  too.  I guess  you’d  better  go  in,  and  maybe 
have  a little  music.  I’m  just  dying  to  hear  you 
sing,  Lucy. 

Lucy.  Mercy,  if  I can  save  your  life  so  easily  as  that, 
let  me  do  it.  I’m  only  glad  it  doesn’t  have  the 
opposite  effect.  Come,  Jessie,  you  can  play  for 
me. 

Jessie.  All  right.  I’ll  be  right  in. 

(Exit  Lucy,  l.) 

Mrs.  R.  Sophia  Ash — I mean  Mrs.  Wilkins — has 
been  giving  me  another  “ message,”  Jessie.  She 
says  a man  in  uniform  is  coming.  Do  you  sup- 
pose — 

Jessie.  What  I suppose  is  that  she  has  you  all  upset, 
and  I wish  she’d  leave  you  alone.  It’s  too  ridic- 
ulous. If  I put  stock  in  all  my  dreams  and 
imaginings,  like  she  does.  I'd  have  enough  “ mes- 
sages ” and  “ visions  ” to  keep  us  guessing  for- 
evermore. (Going  l.)  Don’t  you  pay  a bit  of 
attention  to  anything  she  says.  Mother.  Between 
” Prairie  Flower  ” and  that  new  husband  of  hers, 
I don't  wonder  she  has  her  hands  full.  But  if  she 
doesn't  leave  you  alone,  I intend  to  give  her  a 
piece  of  my  mind. 


88 


FOB  THE  OLD  FLAG 


{Exit,  L.) 

Mrs.  R.  Jessie— be  careful.  I wouldn't  have  you 
hurt  Sophia’s  feelings  for  anything.  (She  stands 
a 'moment,  ruminating , then  goes  to  door  r.  and 
calls.)  Ivy — Oliver! 

{Enter  Ivy,  r.) 

Ivy.  ’D  you  call  me,  Mis’  Randall  ? 

Mrs.  R.  "Yes.  I guess  you  and  Oliver  can  go  in  the 
front  room  now.  They’re  going  to  have  some 
music.  We  won’t  have  the  refreshments  yet  a 
while. 

Ivy.  All  right.  We  got  a whole  pile  o’  nuts  cracked. 
{Calls  off  R.)  Oliver — Oliver,  come  on,  now  I 

{Enter  Oliver,  r.) 

Oliver.  ’D  y’  call  me  ? 

Ivy.  Sure.  Come  on.  We’re  goin’  in  the  front  room 
t’  have  some  music. 

Oliver.  Pshaw ! Can’t  eat  music. 

Mrs.  R.  Why,  Oliver,  I thought  you  were  so  anxious 
to  hear  Miss  Garrett  sing. 

Oliver.  Am.  But  I could  listen  t’  her  ’n’  eat  too. 

Ivy  (l.).  All  you  think  of ’s  eat’n’.  Et  as  many  nuts 
as  y’  cracked. 

Oliver.  Shucks  I Didn’t,  neither.  {He  has  gone  l. 
Ivy  gets  behind  him  and  pushes  him  to  door  l.) 
Oh,  all  right.  I’m  a-goin’.  See  how  she  bosses 
me.  Mis’  Randall?  Jest  like  a wife. 

Ivy.  Oh,  you ! 

{She  gives  him  a slap  and  he  runs  off  l.  She  follows. 
Mrs.  R.  looks  after  them  a moment,  smiling.  A 
small  organ  is  heard  being  pla'yed  off  l.,  then  a 
sweet  soprano  or  contralto  voice,  supposed  to  be 
that  of  Lucy  Garrett,  singing,  Keep  the  Home 
Fires  Biirningf^  or  some  other  appropriate  sym- 
pathetic song;  if  convenient,  with  violin  obligato. 
A phonograph  record  may  be  used  for  this  effect, 
which  should  not  be  omitted.  During  song  Mrs. 

89 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


R,  stands  a moment  in  thought,  then  crosses  to  R., 
pauses  there  and  listens,  then  exits  r.  The  stage 
is  vaeant  for  a moment,  as  the  music  continues. 
After  a pause,  sleigh-bells  are  heard  off  c.,  in 
distance,  approaching.  Finally  they  come  to  door 
outside  and  stop.  There  is  a knocking  on  door  c. 
After  short  pause  it  is  repeated,  more  loudly.  As 
there  is  no  anszver,  the  door  is  opened  gently  and 
Rodney  Hunt  looks  in.  He  is  in  army  uniform, 
with  heavy  overcoat,  the  collar  of  zvhich  is  turned 
up,  zvith  hat  or  cap  pulled  dozvn,  so  that  mo- 
mentarily his  identity  may  be  concealed.  He 
closes  door,  looks  about;  goes  to  l.,  stands  listen- 
ing to  music,  then  looks  off  l.  Mrs.  R.  enters  r., 
at  first  does  not  see  him,  starts  up  tozvard  door, 
then  sees  Rodney,  zjoho  has  his  back  turned  to  her. 
At  first  she  thinks  it  is  Philip,  gasps,  almost  over- 
come. Grasps  chair  for  support.  Calls  feebly.) 

Mrs.  R.  Philip — my — boy! 

(Rodney  turns,  removes  hat.  She  takes  a step  tozvard- 
him,  then  falters,  nearly  falls;  he  runs  and  catches 
her  in  his  arms.) 

Rodney.  Mrs.  Randall ! You  didn’t  know  me — you 
thought 

IMrs.  R.  {partly  recovering,  clinging  to  him).  Philip — 
my  boy — you  have  come  back  I Oh,  my  boy  ! my 
boy!  (Weeping,  almost  hysterically.)  I knew 
you  would  come.  I knew.  I hoped — I prayed 

Rodney.  Pm  sorry,  Mrs.  Randall,  but  it’s  not  your 
son. 

(She  looks  at  him  fjiore  closely,  steadily;  the  truth 
dazvns  upon  her.  Starts  azvay  from  him,  clasping 
her  hands.) 

Mrs.  R.  No — I see.  Tell  me,  where  is — he 

(Enter  Jessie,  l.,  at  first  not  noticing  others.) 

Jessie.  Mother,  aren’t  you  coming 

90 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


(Pauses,  as  she  sees  Rodney,  at  first  bewildered,  then 
recognizing  him.) 

Rodney.  Jes — Miss  Randall!  Don’t  you  know  me? 

Jessie.  Why — yes — it’s  Mr.  Hunt. 

(She  shakes  hands  with  him  cordially.) 

Rodney.  I don’t  wonder  you  hardly  knew  me — in 
these. 

Jessie.  You’re  a soldier!  And  you  never  told  me — 
us. 

Rodney.  No.  I wanted  to  make  good  first ; to  try,  at 
least,  to  be  one  that  neither  my  country  nor  you 
would  be  ashamed  of. 

Jessie.  Oh,  I’m  so  glad!  Mother,  Mr.  Hunt  is  a 
soldier  now.  You  see? 

Mrs.  R.  Yes,  dear.  But — ask  him  about  Philip. 

Jessie.  What  about  him,  Mr.  Plunt?  He  has  not 
come  back  with  you? 

Rodney.  No.  (He  gives  her,  aside,  a look  which  she 
understands.  She  quivers,  hut  partly  conceals 
her  emotion.)  I have  a message — a letter. 

Mrs.  R.  Then  he  was — well — when  you  left  him? 

Rodney.  Mrs.  Randall,  I — I am  sorry — but — you  will 
be  brave? 

Mrs.  R.  Brave?  You  ask  me  to  be — brave?  Then — 
oh,  tell  me,  tell  me ! I can  bear  it.  My  boy — he 
is 

Rodney.  He  was  a real  hero,  Mrs.  Randall.  He  did 
valiant  deeds  and  won  a great  name  before 

(He  pauses,  as  Mrs.  R.  totters,  and  is  assisted  by 
Jessie  to  chair,  l.  c.,  where  she  sits,  covering  face 
with  hands;  Jessie  zvith  arm  about  her.) 

Tessie.  Mother,  we  must  be  brave,  too — as  he  was. 

Mrs.  R.  Yes,  yes,  I know.  Don’t  be  afraid.  I will 
be  brave. 

(Rodney,  zvho  has  removed  overcoat  and  hat,  which 
he  lays  aside,  now  takes  letter  from  pocket.) 

91 


FOR  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Rodney  {io  Jessie).  Is  your  brother  here?  This 
letter  and  my  message  are  for  him  to  hear. 

Jessie.  Yes.  He  is  in  there,  with  Lucy  Garrett  and 
the  others. 

Rodney.  Miss  Garrett?  It  concerns  her,  too.  Will 
you  call  them? 

Jessie.  Yes. 

{Exit,  L.  The  music  has  ceased.  Mrs.  R.  siill  siis  by 
table;  Rodney  stands  c.,  holding  envelope  in 
hand.) 

Mrs.  R.  It  is  a letter  from  Philip?  He  wrote  it? 

Rodney.  No.  I wrote  it,  at  his  dictation.  It  was 
just  at  the  last,  when  he  was  unable  to  write.  I 
wish  I could  tell  you,  Mrs.  Randall,  what  a brave, 
noble  boy  he  Avas — a real  hero.  It  was  through 
him  that  several  of  his  comrades  escaped  death. 

Mrs.  R.  {rising).  And  he  gave — his  own  life — to 
save  them  ? 

Rodney.  Yes. 

Mrs.  R.  My  boy,  my  brave,  noble  boy — a hero ! He 
died  for  his  country  and  to  save  others.  Yes,  I 
can  be  brave  noAV — I can  bear  it. 

{Enter  Jessie,  Lucy  and  Tom,  l.  Lucy  and  Tom 
shozv  great  surprise  as  they  recognize  Rodney. 
Both  shake  hands  cordially  with  him.) 

Tom.  Well,  this  is  a surprise ! Where  did  you  come 
from  ? 

Rodney.  France.  Straight  as  I could  get  here. 

Lucy.  And  in  uniform?  Well,  isn’t  that  grand? 
Look,  Jessie ! look  at  your  soldier  boy. 

Jessie  {a  bit  confused).  Oh,  I noticed.  I hope  you 
don’t  think  those  glory-togs  could  escape  my  at- 
tention. 

(Rodney  is  r.,  Tom,  r.  c,  Lucy,  c.,  Jessie  and  Mrs. 

R.,  L.  c.  and  l.) 

What  about  Phil  ? He  didn’t 


'ik)M.  But  tell  me  — 
come  with  you  ? 


92 


Foil  THE  OLD  FLAG 


Rodney.  No.  You  see,  I was  gassed  Ihe  first  week 
I was  in  the  trenches.  They  gave  me  a leave  of 
absence.  Not  ht  yet,  but  hope  to  go  back  before 
long.  As  for  Phil — that’s  where  the  hard  part  of 
it  comes  in,  Tom.  I have  told  your  mother.  She 
' knows — and  your  sister. 

Tom.  And  I think  I know,  now.  The  worst. 
Mother ! 

(Tom  crosses  io  Mrs.  R.  ; comforts  her.  They  are 
grouped  about;  Rodney  takes  out  letter,  opens  it.) 

Rodney,  This  letter  will  tell  you  better  than  I can. 
Will  you  read  it,  Miss  Garrett? 

Lucy  {taking  letter).  I? — aloud? 

Rodney.  Yes,  please.  It  is  in  my  handwriting,  writ- 
ing at  Piiil’s  nictation,  just  at  the  last.  He  wanted 
you  all  to  hear  it,  and  everybody  to  know  what  it 
contains. 

Lucy.  Then,  of  course 

{She  glances  over  letter,  looks  hurriedly  down  page, 
in  much  excitement ; gives  an  exclamation  of  sur- 
prise, trembling.) 

Jessie.  But  you  were  to  read  it  aloud,  Lucy.  We 
are  waiting. 

Lucy.  Oh — yes!  {Reads.)  “It  is  nearly  over.  I 
have  come  to  the  end,  and  I can’t  go  without 
making  a confession.  I want  to  right  a great 
wrong  and  do  what  I can  to  atone.  I hope  it  isn’t 
too  late.  Mother,  I beg  of  you,  with  my  last 
breath,  to  forgive  me.  You  will,  I know,  even  if 
Tom  can’t.  It’s  too  much  to  expect  him  to.  I 
have  done  him  too  great  a wrong.  I was  in  the 
bank  that  night.  I had  just  left  when  Tom  came. 
I took  the  money,  hid  part  of  it  in  Tom’s  room, 
and  afterward  made  it  look  as  if  he  was  the  one 
who  stole  it.  I was  the  thief,  and  he  paid  the 
penalty.  Let  him  be  cleared  now,  have  it  all 
straightened  out,  so  that  he  and  Lucy— -I  don’t 
suppose  they  can  forgive  me,  but  I hope  they  will 

93 


FOB  THE  OLD  FLAG 


believe  that  I have  tried,  over  here,  to  do  what  I 
could  to  make  up,  just  a little,  for  the  wrong  I 
did  over  there/' 

(Lucy  reads  this  brokenly,  zvlih  pauses,  weeping. 
Mrs.  R.  and  Jessie  also  are  weeping,  ihe  others 
likewise  deeply  affected.  As  Lucy  finishes,  there 
is  silence  and  a pause.  Mrs.  R.  rises  and  Jessie, 
her  arms  about  her,  silently  leads  her  off  l. 
Jessie  looks  hack,  with  a winning  smile,  at  Rod- 
ki:y,  holding  out  one  hand  to  him.  He  follows 
and  also  exits  l.  Tom  atid  Lucy  stajid  c.  She 
holds  out  the  letter  to  him;  he  takes  her  hand, 
draws  her  toward  him.) 

Tom.  Lucy,  do  you  know  what  it  means?  I am 
vindicated— I can  hold  up  my  head  again — do  you 
know  ? 

Lucy.  Yes,  Tom,  I know.  But  I knew  all  the  time. 
I believed  in  you. 

Toi^r,  That’s  the  wonderful  part  of  it.  Even  more 
wonderful  than  this.  But,  just  think,  now  I can 
go.  I can  wear  a uniform — go  to  France — take 
his  place — and  fight  for  the  Flag. 

Lucy.  Yes,  Tom,  and  I can  wait  for  you — till  you 
come  back. 

(They  go  slowly  toward  l.,  his  arm  about  her.  The 
large  flag  still  hangs  on  wall,  stands  there,  or  is 
on  table.  They  take  it  up  and  hold  it  hetzveen 
them.  The  organ  may  he  heard  playing  softly 
off  L.,  then  voices,  subdued,  singing  ''America'' 
as  the  curtain  falls. ) 


curtain 


Read  One  or  More  of  These  Before  Deciding  on 
Your  Next  Program 


GRADUATION  DAY  AT  WOOD  HILD  SCHOOL. 
An  Entertainment  in  Two  Acts,  by  Ward  Macauley.  For  six 
males  and  four  females,  with  several  minor  parts._  Time  of 
playing,  two  hours.  Modern  costumes.  Simple  interior  scenes; 
may  be  presented  in  a hall  without  scenery.  The  unusual  com- 
bination of  a real  “entertainment,”  including  music,  recitations, 
etc.,  with  an  interesting  love  story.  The  graduation  exercises 
^ include  short  speeches,  recitations,  songs,  funny  interruptions, 
and  a comical  speech  by  a country  school  trustee.  Price,  15 
cents. 

EXAMINATION  DAY  AT  WOOD  HILL  SCHOOL. 
An  Entertainment  in  One  Act,  by  Ward  Macauley,  Eight  malts 
and  six  female  characters,  with  minor  parts.  Plays  one  hour. 
Scene,  an  easy  interior,  or  may  be  given  without  scenery.  Cos- 
tumes, modern.  Miss  Marks,  the  teacher,  refuses  to  marry  a 
trustee,  who  threatens  to  discharge  her.  The  examination  in- 
cludes recitations  and  songs,  and  brings  out  many  funny  answers 
to  questions.  At  the  close  Robert  Coleman,  an  old  lover,  claims 
the  teacher.  Very  easy  and  very  effective.  Price,  15  cents. 

BACK  TO  THE  COUNTRY  STORE.  A Rural  Enter- 
tainment in  Three  Acts,  by  Ward  Macauley.  For  four  male 
and  five  female  characters,  with  some  supers.  Time,  two  hours. 
Two  scenes,  both  easy  interiors.  Can  be  played  effectively  with- 
out scenery.  Costumes,  modern.  All  the  principal  parts  are 
sure  hits.  Quigley  Higginbotham,  known  as  “Quig,”  a clerk  in 
a country  store,_  aspires  to  be  a great  author  or  singer  ^ and 
decides  to  try  his  fortunes  in  New  York.  The  last  scene  is  in 
Quig’s  home.  He  returns  a failure  but  is  offered  a partnership 
in  the  country  store.  He  pops  the  question  in  the  midst  of  a 
surprise  party  given  in  his  honor.  Easy  to  do  and  very  funny. 
Price,  15  cents. 

THE  DISTRICT  CONVENTION.  'A  Farcical  Sketch 
in  One  Act,  by  Frank  Dumont.  For  eleven  males  and  one 
female,  or  twelve  males.  Any  number  of  other  parts  or  super- 
numeraries may  be  added.  Plays  forty-five  minutes.  No  special 
^scenery  is  required,  and  the  costumes  and  properties  are  all 
easy.  The  play  shows  an  uproarious  political  nominating  con- 
vention. The  climax  comes  when  a woman’s  rights  cham- 
pion, captures  the  convention.  There  is  a great  chance  to  bur- 
lesque modern  politics  and  to  work  in  local  gags.  Every 
part  will  make  a hit.  Price,  15  cents. 

SI  SLOCUM’S  COUNTRY  STORE.  An  Entertainment 
in  One  Act,  by  Frank  Dumont.  Eleven  male  and  five  female 
characters  with  supernumeraries.  Several  parts  may  be  doubled. 
Plays  one  hour.  Interior  scene,  or  may  be  played  without  set 
scenery.  Costumes,  modern.  The  rehearsal  for  an  entertain- 
ment in  the  village  church  gives  plenty  of  opportunity  for 
specialty  work.  A very  jolly  entertainment  of  the  sort  adapted 
to  almost  any  place  or  occasion.  Price,  15  cents. 

THE  PENN  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

PIIiLADE!J>H!A 


Uniisualiy  Good  Entertainments 

Read  One  or  More  of  These  Before  Deciding  on 
Your  Next  Program 

A SURPRISE  PARTY  AT  BRINKLEY’S.  An  En- 
tertainment in  One  Scene,  by  Ward  Macauley.  Seven  male  and 
seven  female  characters.  Interior  scene,  or  may  be  given  with- 
out scenery.  Costumes,  modern.  Time,  one  hour.  By  the 
author  of  the  popular  successes,  “Graduation  Day  at  Wood  Hill 
School,”  “Back  to  the  Country  Store,”  etc.  The  villagers  have 
■planned  a birthday  surprise  party  for  Mary  Brinkley,  recently 
graduated  from  college.  They  all  join  in  jolly  games,  songs, 
conundrums,  etc.,  and  Mary  becomes  engaged,  which  surprises 
the  surprisers.  The  entertainment  is  a sure  success.  Price,  15  cents, 

JONES  VS.  JINKS.  A Mock  Trial  in  One  Act,  by 
Edward  Mumford.  Fifteen  male  and  six  female  characters,  with 
supernumeraries  if  desired.  May  be  played  all  male.  Many  of  the 
parts  (members  of  the  jury,  etc.)  are  small.  Scene,  a simple 
interior ; may  be  played  without  scenery.  Costumes,  modern. 
Time  of  playing,  one  hour.  This  mock  trial  has  many  novel 
features,  unusual  characters  and  quick  action.  Nearly  every 
character  has  a funny  entrance  and  laughable  lines.  There  are 
many  rich  parts,  and  fast  fun  throughout.  Price,  15  cents. 

THE  SIGHT-SEEING  CAR.  A Comedy  Sketch  in  One 
Act,  by  Ernest  M.  Gould.  For  seven  males,  two  females,  or 
may  be  all  male.  Parts  may  be  doubled,  with  quick  changes,  so 
that  four  persons  may  play  the  sketch.  Time,  forty-five  minutes. 
Simple  street  scene.  Costumes,  modern.  The  superintendent 
of  a sight-seeing  automobile  engages  two  men  to  run  the 
machine.  A Jew,  a farmer,  a fat  lady  and  other  humorous 
characters  give  them,  all  kinds  of  trouble.  This  is  a regular  gat- 
ling-gun  stream  of  rollicking  repartee.  Price,  15  cents. 

THE  CASE  OF  SMYTHE  VS.  SMITH.  An  Original 
Mock  Trial  in  One  Act,  by  Frank  Dumont.  Eighteen  males 
and  two  females,  or  may  be  all  male.  Plays  about  one  hour. 
Scene,  a county  courtroom ; requires  no  scenery ; may  be  played 
in  an  ordinary  hall.  Costumes,  modern.  This  entertainment  is 
nearly  perfect  of  its  kind,  and  a sure  success.  It  can  be  easily 
produced  in  any  place  or  on  any  occasion,  and  provides  almost 
any  number  of  good  parts.  Price,  15  cents. 

THE  OLD  MAIDS’  ASSOCIATION.  A Farcical  Enters 
tainment  in  One  Act,  by  Louise  Latham  Wilson.  For  thirteen 
females  and  one  male.  The  male  part  may  be  played  by  a 
female,  and  the  number  of  characters  increased  to  twenty  or 
more.  Time,  forty  minutes.  The  play  requires  neither  scenerw 
nor  properties,  and  very  little  in  the  way  of  costumes.  Car^ 
'easily  be  prepared  in  one  or  two  rehearsals.  Price,  25  cents. 

* BARGAIN  DAY  AT  BLOOMSTEIN’S.  A Farcical 

Entertainment  in  One  Act,  by  Edv/ard  Mumford.  For  five  males 
and  ten  females,  with  supers.  Interior  scene.  Costumes,  mod- 
ern. Time,  thirty  minutes.  The  characters  and  the  situations 
which  arise  from  their  endeavors  to  buy  and  sell  make  rapid-fire 
fun  from  start  to  finish.  Price,  15  cents. 

THE  PENN  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA 


Successful  Plays  for  All  Girls 

Ifi  Selecting  Your  Next  Play  Do  Not  Overlook  This  List 

YOUNG  DOCTOR  DEVINE.  A Farce  in  Two  Acts. 

by  Mrs.  E.  J.  H.  Goodfellow.  One  of  the  most  popular 
plays  for  girls.  For  nine  female  characters.  Time  in 
playing,  thirty  minutes.  Scenery,  ordinary  interior;  Mod- 
ern costumes.  Girls  in  a boarding-school,  learning  that  a 
young  doctor  is  coming  to  vaccinate  all  the  pupils,  eagerly  con- 
sult each  other  as  to  the  manner  of  fascinating  the  physician, 
• When  the  doctor  appears  upon  the  scene  the  pupils  discover  that 
the  physician  is  a female  practitioner.  Price,  15  cents. 

SISTER  MASONS.  A Burlesque  in  One  Act,  by  Frank 
Dumont.  For  eleven  females.  Time,  thirty  minutes.  Costumes, 
fantastic  gowns,  or  dominoes.  Scene,  interior.  A grand  expose 
of  Masonry.  Some  women  profess  to  learn  the  secrets  of  a 
Masonic  lodge  by  hearing  their  husbands  talk  in  their  sleep, 
and  they  institute  a similar  organization.  Price,  15  cents. 

A COMMANDING  POSITION.  A Farcical  Enter- 
tainment, by  Amelia  Sanford.  • For  seven  female  char- 
acters and  ten  or  more  other  ladies  and  children.  Time,  one 
hour.  Costumes,  modern.  Scenes,  easy  interiors  and  one  street 
scene.  Marian  Young  gets  tired  living  with  her  aunt.  Miss 
Skinflint,  She  decides  to  “attain  a commanding  position," 
Marian  tries  hospital  nursing,  college  settlement  work  and 
school  teaching,  but  decides  to  go  back  to  housework.  Price,  15 
cents. 

HOW  A WOMAN  KEEPS  A SECRET.  A Comedy 

in  One  Act,  by  Frank  Dumont.  For  ten  female  eharacteiWL 
Time,  half  an  hour.  Scene,  an  easy  interior.  Costumes,  modern. 
Mabel  Sweetly  has  just  become  engaged  to  Harold,  but  it’s  “the 
deepest  kind  of  a secret."  Before  announcing  it  they  must  win 
the  approval  of  Harold’s  uncle,  now  in  Europe,  or  lose  a possible 
ten  thousand  a year.  At  a tea  Mabel  meets  her  dearest  friend. 
Maude  sees  Mabel  has  a secret,  she  coaxes  and  Mabel  tells  hes. 
But  Maude  lets  out  the  secret  in  a few  minutes  to  another 
friend  and  so  the  secret  travels.  Price,  15  cents. 

THE  OXFORD  AFFAIR.  A Comedy  in  Three  Aeta, 
by  Josephine  H.  Cobb  and  Jennie  E.  Paine.  For  eight  female 
characters.  Plays  oijie  hour  and  three-quarters.  Scenes,  inter- 
iors at  a seaside  hotel.  Costumes,  modern.  The  action  of  tke 
play  is  located  at  a summer  resort.  Alice  Graham,  in  order  to 
chaperon  herself,  poses  as  a widow,  and  Miss  Oxford  first  claims 
her  as  a sister-in-law,  then  denounces  her.  The  onerous  duties 
of  Miss  Oxford,  who  attempts  to  serve  as  chaperon  to  Miss 
Howe  and  Miss  Ashton  in  the  faee  of  many  obstacles,  furnish 
an  evening  of  rare  enjoyment.  Price  15  cents. 

THE  PENN  PUBUSHING  COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA 


The  Power  of  Expression 

Expression  and  efficiency  go  hand  in  hand. 

The  power  of  clear  and  forceful  expression  brings  confi- 
dence and  poise  at  all  times — in  private  gatherings,  in  public 
discussion,  in  society,  in  business. 

It  is  an  invaluable  asset  to  any  man  or  woman.  It  can  often 
be  turned  into  money,  but  it  is  always  a real  joy. 

In  learning  to  express  thought,  we  learn  to  command 
thought  itself,  and  thought  is  power.  You  can  have  this 
power  if  you  will. 

Whoever  has  the  power  of  clear  expression  is  always  sure 
of  himself. 

The  power  of  expression  leads  to: 

The  ability  to  think  “on  your  feet” 

Successful  public  speaking 

Effective  recitals 

The  mastery  over  other  minds 

Social  prominence 

Business  success 

Efficiency  in  any  undertaking 

Are  these  things  worth  while? 

They  are  all  successfully  taught  at  The  National  School  of 
Elocution  and  Orator}’’,  which  during  many  years  has  de- 
veloped this  power  in  hundreds  of  men  and  women. 

A catalogue  giving  full  information  as  to  how  any  of  these 
accomplishments  may  be  attained  will  be  sent  free  on  request. 

THE  NATIONAL  SCHOOL  OF 
ELOCUTION  AND  ORATORY 
1714  Delancey  Street  Philadelphia 


